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GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



"'^2><9>^° 



GRAY DAYS AND 
GOLD 

IN ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND 



BY 

WILLIAM WINTER 

YORK CATHEDRAL 




New Edition, Revised, wiih Illustrations 



TllK MACMILLAN C 

N: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1896 

All rights reserved 



i.f;i 




GRAY DAYS AND 
GOLD 

IN ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND 



BY 



WILLIAM WINTER 




New Edition, Revised, with Illustrations 

OCT 7 ^»yb ] 

THE. MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1896 

All rights reserved 



lk^^-\ 






Copyright, 1892, 
Bv MACMILLAN AND CO. 



Illustrated Edition, 

Copyright, 1896, 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped June, 1892. Reprinted November, 
1892; January, June, August, 1893; April, 1894. 

Illustrated edition, revised throughout, in crown 8vo, set up 
and electrotyped June, 1896. 



THE LIBRARY 
OF C ONGR ESS 

llwASHlN GTOWj 



JiTorfoooft ^rcss 

J. S. Gushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 



TO 

Sugugttu Balii 

REMEMBERING A FRIENDSHIP 

OF MANY YEARS 

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 



" Est alliums tibi 
Renunque pntdens^ et secundis 
Tonporibiis dubiisqiie rectus ''' ^ 



III thy Jiu'nd thou conjoiiicsi life s practical /o/owledge, 
And a temper titimoved by the changes o/Jortitne, 
JVhatsoever her smile or her froivn. 
Neither bowed nor elate, — bnt erect " 



-ORD LYTTON S TRANSLATION 




PREFACE TO THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION 
OF GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 

This book^ containing description of my Gray Days in 
England and Scotland^ has, in a niiniatiire forni, passed 
tJirough several editions, and it has beeji received by the 
public ivith exceptional synipatJiy and abundant practical 
favour. Its publisJiers are, tJierefore, encouraged to pre- 
sent it in a more opulent style, and ivith the cmbellisJi- 
ment of pictorial illustrations. Its success, — and indeed 
the success wJiicJi has attended all my books, — is deeply 
gratifying to jne, the more so that I did not expect it. 
My sketches of travel were the 7inpremeditated citations 
of genial impulse, a?td I did not suppose that they zvould 
endure beyond the hour. If I had anticipated the remark- 
ably cordial approbation zuhich has been accorded to my 
humble studies of British scenery and life, I should have 
tried to make tJiem better, and, especially, I should have 
taken scrupulous care to verify every date and every his- 
toric statenicjit set forth iji my text. That prccautioji, at 
first, I did not ijivariably take, but as my mood zuas that 
of contemplation and reverie, so 7ny method was that of the 
dreamer, ivJio drifts carelessly from one beautifid thing to 

9 



lO PREFACE TO ILLUSTRATED EDmON 

anotJicr, uttering simply wJiatcver covics into Ids thoughts, 
ht preparing the text for this edition of Gray Days, Jioiv- 
ever, anel also in preparing the text of Shakespeare's 
England /(?r the pictorial edition, I have careftilly revised 
Diy sketches, and have made a studious and conscientious 
endeavour to correct every mistake and to remove evoy 
defect. The chapters on Clopton and Devizes have been 
considerably augmented, ajid the record of Shakespeareaii 
affairs at Stratford-7ip07i-Avon has been continued to the 
present time. A heedless error in my chapter on Wor- 
cester, respecting the Shakespeare marriage bond, has been 
rectified, and i?i various ivays the 7iarrative has been 
made more autJientic, the historical embellishment more 
complete, and, perJiaps, the style more flexible and more 
concise. 

Eight of the papers in this volume relate to Scotland. 
My fi?'st visit to that romantic country zvas made in 
1888, and zvas limited to the lozvlands, but since that 
time I have had tJie privilege of making several highland 
rambles, and, in particular, of passing tJioughtful days in 
the lovely island of lona, — one of the most i?iterestijig 
places in Europe, — and t J lose readers zvho may care to 
keep me co^npany beyojid the limits of this work will 
find memorials of those wanderijigs and that experience 
in my later books, called Old Shrines and Ivy and 
Brown Heath and Blue Bells. 

W. W. 

July 15, 1896. 




PREFACE 

This book, a companion to Shakespeare's England, 
relates to the gray days of an American wanderer in the 
BritisJi islands, and to the gold of tJiought and fancy 
that can be found there. In Shakespeare's England 
an attempt was made to depict, in an nncom'entional 
7}ianner, those lovely scenes that are intertzvined zvitJi the 
name and the memory of Shakespeare, and also to reflect 
the spirit of that English scenery in geiieral wJiicJi, to an 
imaginative mind, mnst always be veiierable zvith historic 
aittiquity and tenderly hallozved zvith poetic and romantic 
association. The present book continnes the same treat- 
ment of kindred tJiemes, referring not only to the land 
of Shakespeare, but to the land of Burns and Scott. 

After so much had been done, and superbly done, by 
WasJiington Irving and by other authors, to celebrate the 
beauties of our ancestral home, it zvas perhaps an act of 
presumption on the part of the present zvriter to touch 



12 PREFACE 

tJiose subjects. He can only plead, in extenuation of his 
boldness, an irresistible impulse of reverence and affection 
for them. His presentmoit of them can give no offence, 
and perJiaps it may be found sufficiently sympatJietic and 
diversified to awaken and sustain at least a momentaiy 
interest in the minds of those readers who love to muse 
and dream over the relics of a storied past. If by happy 
fortune it sJiould do more tJian that, — if it should help 
to impress his countrymen, so many of ivJiom annually 
travel in Great Biitain, with the superlative importance 
of adorning the physical aspect and of refilling the mate- 
rial civilisation of America by a reproduction zvithin its 
borders of ivhatever is valuable in the long experience 
and 2U hat ever is noble and beautiful in the domestic and 
religious spirit of the British islands, — his labour will 
not have been in vain. The supreme need of this age in 
America is a practical conviction that progress does not 
consist in material prosperity but in. spiritual advance- 
ment. Utility has long been exclusively zvorshipped. 
The IV elf are of the future lies in the worsJiip of beauty. 
To that worship these pages are devoted, zvith all that it 
implies of sympathy zvith the higher instincts and faith 
in the divine destiny of the human race. 

Many of the sketches here assembled were originally 
printed in the Nezv York Tribiuie, with zvhich journal 
their autJior has been continuojLsly associated, as dramatic 
reviezver and as an editorial contributor, since August, 
1865. TJu^y have been revised for publication in this 



PREFACE 1 3 

form. Part of the paper on Sir Walter Scott first 
appeared in Harper s Weekly, for wJiich periodical the 
author has occasionally writtcji. The paper on the 
Wordszvorth country ivas contributed to the Neiv York 
Mirror. TJie alluring field of Scottish antiquity ajui 
romance, ivhich the author has ventured but slightly to 
touch, may perhaps be explored hereafter, for treasures 
of co7itemplation that earlier seekers have left ungathered. 
[ This implied promise has since been fulfilled, iji Brown 
Heath and Blue Bells, 1895.] 

The fact is recorded that an impoi^tant recent book, 
1890, called Shakespeare's True Life, written by James 
Walter, incorporates into its text, without credit, several 
passages of original description and reflection taken from 
the present zvriter s sketches of the Shakespeare country, 
published in Shakespeare's England, and also quotes, as 
his ivoi'k, an elaborate narrative of a nocturnal visit to 
Anne Hathazvays cottage, zvhicJi he never zurote and 
never claimed to have zvritten. This statement is made 
as a safeguard against future inftistice. 

IV. ir. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface to Illustrated Edition 9 

Preface to First Edition 11 

CHAPTER I 

Classic Shrines of England ....... 25 

CHAPTER n 
Haunted Glens and Houses 36 

CHAPTER HI 
Old York 53 

CHAPTER IV 
The Haunts of Moore 66 

CHAPTER V 
The Beautiful City of Bath 84 

CHAPTER VI 
The Land of Wordsworth 94 

CHAPTER VII 
Shakespeare Relics at Worcester . . . . . .112 

15 



[6 CONTENTS 



CHAPTER VIII 

PAGE 

Byron and Hucknall-Torkard Church 122 



CHAPTER IX 
Historic Nooks of Warwickshire 141 

CHAPTER X 
Shakespeare's Town 150 

CHAPTER XI 
Up and Down the Avon 172 

CHAPTER XII 
Rambles in Arden 181 

CHAPTER XIII 

The Stratford Fountain 188 

CHAPTER XIV 
Bosworth Field 198 

CHAPTER XV 
The Home of Dr. Johnson 209 

CHAPTER XVI 
From London to Edinburgh 223 

CHAPTER XVII 
Into the Highlands 230 



1 



CONTENTS 17 

CHAPTER XVIII 

PAGE 

Highland Beauties 238 

CHAPTER XIX 
The Heart of Scotland ' . 24S 

CHAPTER XX 

Sir Walter Scott 265 

CHAPTER XXI 

Elegiac Memorials in Edinburgh 2S7 

CHAPTER XXII 
Scottish Pictures 297 

CHAPTER XXIII 
Imperial Ruins 305 

CHAPTER XXIV 
The Land of Marmion 314 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 



^' York Cathedral Photogravure . Frontispiece 

Edinburgh Castle ..... Vignette . Title-page 

Stoke-Pogis Churchyard 26 

Gray's Monument .......... 28 

Portrait of Thomas Gray ......... 29 

All Saints' Church, Laleham ........ 31 

V Arnold's Grave ..... Photogravure . . face ^^ 

Portrait of Matthew Arnold ........ 34 

Hampton Lucy 37 

Old Porch of Clopton 39 

L Clopton House ..... Photogravure . . face 44 

Warwick Castle, from the Mound 46 

Warwick Castle, from the River ........ 48 

Leicester's Hospital . . . . . . . . . 51 

From the Warwick Shield .... Tailpiece . . -52 

Bootham Bar 54 

York Cathedral — West Front 57 

York Cathedral — South Side .60 

York Cathedral — East Front 62 

Portrait of Thomas Moore ......... 67 

The Bear — Devizes 70 

St. John's Church — Devizes . 73 

Hungerford Chapel — Devizes ........ 75 

The Avon and Bridge — Bath . 85 

Portrait of Beau Nash 86 

19 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Bath Abbey 
High Street — Bath . 
A Fragment from an Old Roman Bath 
Remains of the Old Roman Bath 
^ Penrith Castle .... 

Ullswater 

Lyulph's Tower — Ullswater 

Portrait of William Wordsworth 

Approach to Ambleside 

Grasmere Church 

Rydal Mount — Wordsworth's Seat 

An Old Lich Gate . 

Worcester Cathedral, from the Edgar 

The Edgar Tower 

Portrait of Lord Byron 

V Hucknall-Torkard Church 
Hucknall-Torkard Church 
Hucknall-Torkard Church — Interior 
The Red Horse Hotel 

The Grammar School, Stratford 
Interior of the Grammar School 
Trinity Church .... 
The Shakespeare Memorial Theatre 
An Old Stratford Character : George 
Anne Hathaway's Cottage 

V The Gower Statue 

Tailpiece 

Evesham .... 
Clopton Bridge 
Charlecote, from the Terrace 
The Abbey Mills, Tewkesbury 

^ Wootton-Wawen Church . 
Beaudesert Cross 



Tailpiece 
rhoios^raviire 



Tailpiece 
Tower 



Thotogravure 



Robbins . 

Photozravure 



Pliolos-raviire 



ILLUSTRATIONS 21 

PAGE 

Tailpiece 187 

Portrait of Henry Irving, 1S88 191 

i- The Stratford Fountain . . . Photogravure . . face 193 

Mary Arden's Cottage 196 

Tailpiece 197 

. Bosworth Field .... Photogravure . . face 200 

Higham-on-the-Hill 207 

Tailpiece 208 

Dr. Johnson . . . . . . . . . . .210 

Lichfield Cathedral — West Front . . . . . . .211 

Lichfield Cathedral — West Front, Central Doorway . . -213 

House in which Johnson was born . . . . . . .217 

The Spires of Lichfield . . 220 

Peterborough Cathedral . . . Photogravure . .face 224 

Berwick Castle ........... 228 

Stirling Castle , . . . . . . . . . .231 

Loch Achray ........... 234 

Loch Katrine ........... 235 

Tailpiece 237 

Oban ............ 240 

'- Loch Awe ..... Photogravure . . face 246 

Corbel from St. Giles .... Tailpiece . . . 247 

The Crown of St. Giles's ......... 249 

Scott's House in Edinburgh* . . . . . . . -252 

The Maiden ........... 255 

Gray friars Church . . . . . . . . . .256 

High Street — Allan Ramsay's Shop 257 

The Canongate 260 

Holyrood Castle, and Arthur's Seat . Photogravure . . face 262 
St. Giles's, from the Lawn Market ....... 263 

Portrait of Sir Walter Scott . . . . . . . .266 

Edinburgh Castle .271 

The Canongate Tolbooth 277 



22 ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Grayfriars Churchyard 292 

The Forth Bridge 298 

Dunfermline Abbey 300 

Northwest Corner of Dunfermline Abbey 303 

The Nave — Looking West — Dunfermline Abbey .... 304 

Loch Lomond 3°^ 

Loch Lomond ........... 3°^ 

Dunstaffnage 3^2 

Tantallon Castle . .' 316 

Norham Castle, in the Time of Marmion 321 



'■'■ Whatever withdraws lis from the poiver of our senses, ivhatever 
makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the pres- 
ent, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. . . . All travel has 
its advantages. If the passetiger visits better countries he may learn 
to improve his ozvn, and if fortune carries him to worse he may 
learn to enjoy it.'^ 

DR. JOHNSON, 



" There is pven, 
Unto the things of earth which time hath bent, 
A spirit' s feeling ; and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
A7td magic in the ruined battlement. 
For luhich the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and 7vait till ages are its doiver.^^ 

BYRON. 



" The charming, friendly Ejiglish landscape I Is there any in 
the world like it? To a traveller returning home it looks so kind, 
— it seems to shake hands with you as you pass through it.''^ 

THACKERAY. 





GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 
CHAPTER I 

CLASSIC SHRINES OF ENGLAND 

ONDON, June 29, 1888.— The poet Em- 
erson's injunction, "Set not thy foot on 
graves," is wise and right; and being in 
merry England in the month of June it 
certainly is your own fault if you do not 
fulfil the rest of the philosophical commandment and 
" Hear what wine and roses say." Yet the history of 
England is largely written in her ancient churches and 
crumbling ruins, and the pilgrim to historic and literary 
shrines in this country will find it difficult to avoid set- 
ting his foot on graves. It is possible here, as else- 
where, to live entirely in the present ; but to certain 
temperaments and in certain moods the temptation is 
irresistible to live mostly in the past. I write these 
words in a house which, according to local tradition, 
was once occupied by Nell Gwynn, and as I glance into 
the garden I see a venerable acacia that was planted by 
her fair hands, in the far-off time of the Merry Mon- 

25 



26 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



arch. Within a few days I have stood in the dungeon 
of Guy Fawkes, in the Tower, and sat at luncheon in 
a manor-house of Warwickshire wherein were once con- 
vened the conspirators of the Gunpowder Plot. The 
newspapers of this morning announce that a monument 
will be dedicated on July 19 to commemorate the defeat 







Stoke-Pogis Ch urcJiyai d. 



of the Spanish Armada, three hundred years ago. It is 
not unnatural that the wanderer should live in the past, 
and often should find himself musing over its legacies. 

One of the most sacred spots in England is the 
churchyard of Stoke-Pogis. I revisited that place on 



I CLASSIC SHRINES OF ENGLAND 2/ 

June 13 and once again rambled and meditated in 
that hallowed haunt. Not many months ago it seemed 
likely that Stoke Park would pass into the possession 
of a sporting club, and be turned into a race-course 
and kennel. A track had already been laid there. 
Fate was kind, however, and averted the final dis- 
aster. Only a few changes are to be noted in that 
part of the park which to the reverent pilgrim must 
always be dear. The churchyard has been extended 
in front, and a solid wall of flint, pierced with a lych- 
gate, richly carved, has replaced the plain fence, with 
its simple turnstile, that formerly enclosed that rural 
cemetery. The additional land was given by the new 
proprietor of Stoke Park, who wished that his tomb 
might be made in it ; and this has been built, beneath 
a large tree not far from the entrance. The avenue 
from the gate to the church has been widened, and it 
is now fringed with thin lines of twisted stone ; and 
where once stood only two or three rose-trees there 
are now sixty-two, — set in lines on either side of the 
path. But the older part of the graveyard remains 
unchanged. The yew-trees cast their dense shade, as 
of old. The quaint porch of the sacred building has 
not suffered under the hand of restoration. The 
ancient wooden memorials of the dead continue to 
moulder above their ashes. And still the abundant 
ivy gleams and trembles in the sunshine and in the 
summer wind that plays so sweetly over the spired 
tower and dusky walls of this lovely temple — 

"All green and wildly fresh without, 
but worn and gray beneath." 



28 



GRAY DAYS AND COLD 



CHAP, 



It would still be a lovely church, even if it were not 
associated with the immortal Elegy. I stood for a long 
time beside the tomb of the noble and tender poet and 
looked with deep emotion on the surrounding scene of 
pensive, dream-like beauty, — the great elms, so dense 
of foliage, so stately and graceful ; the fields of deep, 
waving grass, golden with buttercups and white with 
daisies ; the many unmarked mounds ; the many mould- 







'^ V 



Gray's Monument. 



ering tombstones ; the rooks sailing and cawing around 
the tree-tops ; and over all the blue sky flecked with 
floating fleece. Within the church nothing has been 
changed. The memorial window to Gray, for which 
contributions have been taken during several years, 
has not yet been placed. As I cast a farewell look 
at Gray's tomb, on turning to leave the churchyard, it 
rejoiced my heart to see that two American girls, who 



CLASSIC SHRINES OF ENGLAND 



29 



had then just come in, were placing fresh flowers over 
the poet's dust. He has been buried more than a hun- 
dred years, — but his memory is as bright and green as 
the ivy on the tower within whose shadow he sleeps, 
and as fragrant as the roses that bloom at its base. 
Many Americans visit Stoke-Pogis churchyard, and no 
visitor to the old world, who knows how to value what 
is best in its treasures, will omit that act of reverence. 
The journey is easy. A brief run by railway from Pad- 
dington takes you to Slough, which is near to Windsor, 
and thence it is a 
charming drive, or 
a still more charm- 
ing walk, mostly 
through green, em- 
bowered lanes, to 
the ''ivy-mantled 
tower," the "yew- 
trees' shade," and 
the simple tomb of 
Gray. What a gap 
there would be in 
the poetry of our 
language if the 
Elegy in a Country 
Churchyard were ab- 
sent from it ! By 
that sublime and tender reverie upon the most impor- 
tant of all subjects that can engage the attention of the 
human mind Thomas Gray became one of the chief bene- 
factors of his race. Those lines have been murmured by 
the lips of sorrowing affection beside many a shrine of 




Thomas Gray. 



30 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



buried love and hope, in many a churchyard, all round 
the world. The sick have remembered them with com- 
fort. The great soldier, going into battle, has said them 
for his solace and cheer. The dying statesman, closing 
his weary eyes upon this empty world, has spoken them 
with his last faltering accents, and fallen asleep with 
their heavenly music in his heart. Well may we pause 
and ponder at the grave of that divine poet! Every 
noble mind is made nobler, every good heart is made 
better, for the experience of such a pilgrimage. In 
such places as these pride is rebuked, vanity is dis- 
pelled, and the revolt of the passionate human heart is 
humbled into meekness and submission. 

There is a place kindred with Stoke-Pogis church- 
yard, a place destined to become, after a few years, as 
famous and as dear to the heart of the reverent pilgrim 
in the footsteps of genius and pure renown. On Sun- 
day afternoon, June 17, I sat for a long time beside the 
grave of Matthew Arnold. It is in a little churchyard 
at Laleham, in Surrey, where he was born. The day 
was chill, sombre, and, except for an occasional low 
twitter of birds and the melancholy cawing of distant 
rooks, soundless and sadly calm. So dark a sky might 
mean November rather than June ; but it fitted well 
with the scene and with the pensive thoughts and feel- 
ings of the hour. Laleham is a village on the south 
bank of the Thames, about thirty miles from London 
and nearly midway between Staines and Chertsey. It 
consists of a few devious lanes and a cluster of houses, 
shaded with large trees and everywhere made beautiful 
with flowers, and it is one of those fortunate and happy 
places to which access cannot be obtained by railway. 



CLASSIC SHRINES OF ENGLAND 



31 



There is a manor-house in the centre of it,. secluded in 
a walled garden, fronting the square immediately op- 
posite to the village church. The rest of the houses 
are mostly cottages, made of red brick and roofed with 
red tiles. Ivy flourishes, and many of the cottages are 
overrun with climbing roses. Roman relics are found 
in the neighbourhood, — a camp near the ford, and other 
indications of the military activity of Caesar. The 










//iT 



All Sanits" Church, Laleham. 



church. All Saints', is of great antiquity. It has been 
in part restored, but its venerable aspect is not impaired. 
The large low tower is of brick, and this and the church 
walls are thickly covered with glistening ivy. A double- 
peaked roof of red tiles, sunken here and there, contrib- 
utes to the picturesque beauty of this building, and its 
charm is further heightened by the contiguity of trees, 



32 GR.\Y DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

in which the old church seems to nestle. Within there 
are low, massive pillars and plain, symmetrical arches, 
— the remains of Norman architecture. Great rafters 
of dark oak augment, in this quaint structure, the air of 
solidity and of an age at once venerable and romantic, 
^vhile a bold, spirited, beautiful painting of Christ and 
Peter upon the sea imparts to it an additional sentiment 
of sanctity and solemn pomp. That remarkable work 
is by George Henry Harlow, and it is placed back of 
the altar, where once there would have been, in the 
Gothic days, a stained window. The explorer does not 
often come upon such a gem of a church, even in 
England, — so rich in remains of the old Catholic zeal 
and devotion ; remains now mostly converted to the use 
of Protestant worship. 

The churchyard of All Saints' is worthy of the 
church, — a little enclosure, irregular in shape, surface, 
shrubbery, and tombstones, bordered on two sides by 
the village square and on one by a farmyard, and 
shaded by many trees, some of them yews, and some of 
great size and age. Almost every house that is visible 
near by is bowered with trees and adorned with flowers. 
No person was anywhere to be seen, and it was only 
after inquiry at various dwellings that the sexton's abode 
could be discovered and access to the church obtained. 
The poet's grave is not within the church, but in a 
secluded spot at the side of it, a little removed from the 
highway, and screened from immediate view by an 
ancient, dusky yew-tree. I readily found it, perceiving 
a large wreath of roses and a bunch of white flowers 
that were lying upon it, — -recent offerings of tender 
remembrance and sorrowing love, but already begin- 



'';r\ 



are low, massive pillars and plain, symmetrical arch. . 
— the remai n architecture. Great rafters 

of dark oak ' tructure, the air of 

solidity and <■ .i<ie and romantic, 

whi^- :-'. ]-)old, sp . ainting of Christ and 

I'cu ' ■ 'ditional sentiment 

. I remarkable work 

iirv Harlow is placed back of 

■ there would have been, in the 

I window. The explorer does not 

ih a gem of a church, even in 

i,nt>iand, — su rich in remains of the old Catholic zeal 

, , . . 3VA510 2"aJOM5!A 

inri rievotion ; remams n'v>- -•.+ .■ ....-i-;>.i ^.. ^-i-.. .^^q 

• ;■' ' !^rtt worship. 

>f Aii bamts' is worthy ot the 

insure, irregular in shape, surface, 

vstones, bordercH nn tvvo sides by 

'|uare and on on- 'nrmyard, and 

•a 'oy liiany trees, some < : ' >. and some of 

, .1 size and age. Almns' that is visible 

near by is bowered with ' : with flowers. 

No person was anyw J it was only 

after inquiry at vaiio. <vtf)n's abode 

could be discovered obtained. 

The poet's i;rwive Ls itr» Itie church, but in a 

secluded spot at tb" '. a little removed from the 

highway, and s. ^ immediate view by an 

ancient, dusl 1 readily found it, perceiving 

n lar • and a bunch of white flowers 

that --recent offerings of tender 

rcn:r;M. lu^ love, but already beL;i;v 



I CLASSIC SHRINES OF ENGLAND 33 

ning to wither. A small square of turf, bordered with 
white marble, covers the vaulted tomb of the poet and of 
three of his children.^ At the head are three crosses of 
white marble, alike in shape and equal in size, except 
that the first is set upon a pedestal a little lower than 
those of the others. On the first cross is written : 
" Basil Francis Arnold, youngest child of Matthew and 
Frances Lucy Arnold. Born August 19, 1866. Died 
January 4, 1868. Suffer little children to come unto 
me." On the second: ''Thomas Arnold, eldest child 
of Matthew and Frances Lucy Arnold. Born July 6, 
1852. Died November 23, 1868. Awake, thou. Lute 
and Harp! I will awake right early." On the third: 
''Trevenen William Arnold, second child of Matthew 



'1 Since these words were written a plain headstone of white marble 
has been placed on this spot, bearing the following inscription : — 

"Matthew Arnold, eldest son of the late Thomas Arnold, D.D., Head 
Master of Rugby School. Born December 24, 1822. Died April 15, 1888. 
There is sprung up a light for the righteous, and joyful gladness for such 
as are true-hearted." 

The Letters of ATatthew Arnold, published in 1895, contain touching 
allusions to Laleham Churchyard. At Harrow, February 27, 1869, the 
poet wrote : " It is a wonderfully clear, bright day, with a cold wind, so I 
went to a field on the top of the hill, whence I can see the clump of Bot- 
leys and the misty line of the Thames, where Tommy lies at the foot of 
them. I often go for this view on a clear day." At London, August 2, 
1869, he wrote : " On Saturday Flu and I went together to Laleham. It 
was exactly a year since we had driven there with darling Tommy and the 
other two boys, to see Basil's grave ; he enjoyed the drive, and Laleham, 
and the river, and Matt Buckland's garden, and often talked of them 
afterwards. And now we went to see his grave, poor darling. The two 
graves are a perfect garden, and are evidently the sight of the churchyard, 
where there is nothing else like them; a path has been trodden over the 
grass to them by people coming and going. It was a soft, mild air, and 
we sat a long time by the graves." 
C 



34 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



and Frances Lucy Arnold. Born October 15, 1853, 
Died February 16, 1872. In the morning it is green 
and groweth up." Near by are other tombstones, bear- 
ing the name of Arnold, — the dates inscribed on them 
referring to about the beginning of this century. These 
mark the resting-place of some of the poet's kindred. 
His father, the famous Dr. Arnold of Rugby, rests in 

Rugby chapel, — that 
noble father, that true 
friend and servant of 
humanity, of whom the 
son wrote those words 
of imperishable nobility 
and meaning, " Thou, 
my father, wouldst not 
be saved alone." Mat- 
thew Arnold is buried 
in the same grave with 
his eldest son and side 
by side with his little 
children. He who was 
himself as a little child, 
in his innocence, good- 
ness, and truth, — where 
else and how else could he so fitly rest } " Awake, thou. 
Lute and Harp ! I will awake right early." 

Every man will have his own thoughts in such a place 
as this ; will reflect upon his own afflictions, and from 
knowledge of the manner and spirit in which kindred 
griefs have been borne by the great heart of intellect 
and genius will seek to gather strength and patience to 
endure them well. Matthew Arnold taught many les- 




Mattheii) Arnold. 



1 CLASSIC SHRINES OF ENGLAND 35 

sons of great value to those who are able to think. He 
did not believe that happiness is the destiny of the 
human race on earth, or that there is a visible ground 
for assuming that happiness in this mortal condition is 
one of the inherent rights of humanity. He did not 
think that this world is made an abode of delight by the 
mere jocular affirmation that everything in it is well and 
lovely. He knew better than that. But his message, 
delivered in poetic strains that will endure as long as 
our language exists, is the message, not of gloom and 
despair, but of spiritual purity and sweet and gentle- 
patience. The man who heeds Matthew Arnold's 
teaching will put no trust in creeds and superstitions, 
will place no reliance upon the transient structures of 
theology, will take no guidance from the animal and 
unthinking multitude ; but he will '^ keep the whiteness 
of his soul"; he will be simple, unselfish, and sweet; 
he will Hve for the spirit ; and in that spirit, pure, ten- 
der, fearless, strong to bear and patient to suffer, he 
will find composure to meet the inevitable disasters of 
life and the awful mystery of death. Such was the 
burden of my thought, sitting there, in the gloaming, 
beside the lifeless dust of him whose hand had once, 
with kindly greeting, been clasped in mine. And such 
will be the thought of many and many a pilgrim who 
will stand in that sacred place, on many a summer even- 
ing of the long future — 

" While the stars come out and the night wind 
Brings, up the stream, 
Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea." 




CHAPTER II 



HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 




ARWICK, July 6, 1888. — One night, 
many years ago ^ a brutal murder was 
done, at a lonely place on the high- 
road between Charlecote Park and 
Stratford-upon-Avon. The next morn- 
ing the murdered man was found lying 
by the roadside, his mangled head resting in a small 
hole. The assassins were shortly afterward discovered, 
and they were hanged at Warwick. From that day to 
this the hole wherein the dead man's head reposed 
remains unchanged. No matter how often it may be 
filled, whether by the wash of heavy rains or by stones 
and leaves that wayfarers may happen to cast into it as 
they pass, it is soon found to be again empty. No one 
takes care of it. No one knows whether or by whom 
it is guarded. Fill it at nightfall and you will find it 



1 The crime was committed on November 4, 1820. The victim was a 
farmer, named William Hirons. The assassins, four in number, named 
Quiney, Sidney, Hawtrey, and Adams, were hanged, at Warwick, in 
April, 1821. 

"36 



CHAP. II HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 3/ 

empty in the morning. That is the local belief and 
affirmation. This spot is two miles and a half north of 
Stratford and three-quarters of a mile from the gates of 
Charlecote Park. I looked at this hole one bright day 
in June and saw that it was empty. Nature, it is 
thought by the poets, abhors complicity with the con- 
cealment of crime, and brands with her curse the places 
that are linked with the shedding of blood. Hence the 
strong lines in Hood's poem of Eugene Aram: 

" And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 
And still the corse was bare.'" 




Hampton Lucy. 

There are many haunted spots in Warwickshire. 
The benighted peasant never lingers on Ganerslie 
Heath, — for there, at midnight, dismal bells have been 
heard to toll, from Blacklow Hill, the place where Sir 
Piers Gaveston, the corrupt, handsome, foreign favour- 
ite of King Edward the Second, was beheaded, by order 
of the grim barons whom he had insulted and opposed. 
The Earl of Warwick led them, whom Gaveston had 
called the Black Dog of Arden. This was long ago. 
Everybody knows the historic incident, but no one can 
so completely realise it as when standing on the place. 



38 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

The scene of the execution is marked by a cross, erected 
by Mr. Bertie Greathead, bearing this inscription : " In 
the hollow of this rock was beheaded, on the first day 
of July 13 12, by Barons lawless as himself, Piers Gaves- 
ton, Earl of Cornwall. In life and death a memorable 
instance of misrule." [Hollinshed says that the execu- 
tion occurred on Tuesday, June 20.] No doubt the 
birds were singing and the green branches of the trees 
were waving in the summer wind, on that fatal day, 
just as they are at this moment. Gaveston was a man 
of much personal beauty and some talent, and only 
twenty-nine years old. It was a melancholy sacrifice 
and horrible in the circumstances that attended it. No 
wonder that doleful thoughts and blood-curdling sounds 
should come to such as walk on Ganerslie Heath in the 
lonely hours of the night. 

Another haunted place is Clopton — haunted certainly 
with memories if not with ghosts. In the reign of Henry 
the Seventh this was the manor of Sir Hugh Clopton, 
Lord Mayor of London, in 1492, he who built the bridge 
over the Avon, — across which, many a time, William 
Shakespeare must have ridden, on his way to Oxford 
and the capital. The dust of Sir Hugh rests in Strat- 
ford church and his mansion has passed through many 
hands. In our time, it is the residence of Sir Arthur 
Hodgson,^ by whom it was purchased in July, 1873. It 
was my privilege to see Clopton under the guidance of 
its lord, and a charming and impressive old house it is, 

1 Arthur Hodgson, born in i8i8, was educated at Eton and at Cam- 
bridge. He went to Australia in 1839, and made a fortune as a sheep- 
farmer. He served the State in various pubUc offices, and was knighted by 
Queen Victoria. He has been five times Mayor of Stratford-upon-Avon. 



HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 



39 



— full of quaint objects and fraught with singular asso- 
ciations. They show to you there, among many inter- 
esting paintings, the portrait of a lady, with thin figure, 
delicate features, long light hair, and sensitive counte- 
nance, said to be that of Lady Margaret Clopton, who, in 
the Stuart time, 
drowned herself, 
in a dismal well, 
behind the man- 
sion, — being 
crazed with grief 
at the death of 
her lover, killed 
in the Civil War. 
And they show 
to you the por- 
trait of still an- 
other Clopton 
girl. Lady Char- 
1 o 1 1 e, w h o is 
thought to have 
been accident- 
ally buried alive, 

— because when 
it chanced that 
the family tomb 
was opened, a 
few days after 
her interment, the corse was found to be turned over 
in its coffin and to present indications that the wretched 
victim of premature burial had, in her agonized frenzy, 
gnawed her flesh. Her death was attributed to the 




Old Porch of Clopton. 



40 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

plague, and it occurred on the eve of her prospective 
marriage. 

It is the blood-stained corridor of Clopton, however, 
that most impresses imagination. This is at the top of 
the house, and access to it is gained by a winding stair 
of oak boards, uncarpeted, solid, simple, and consonant 
with the times and manners that it represents. Many- 
years ago a squire of Clopton murdered his butler, in a 
little bedroom near the top of that staircase, and dragged 
the body along the corridor, to secrete it. A thin dark 
stain, seemingly a streak of blood, runs from the door 
of that bedroom, in the direction of the stairhead, and 
this is so deeply imprinted in the wood that it cannot be 
removed. Opening from this corridor, opposite to the 
room of the murder, is an angular apartment, which in 
the remote days of Catholic occupancy was used as an 
oratory. 1 In the early part of the reign of Henry the 
Sixth, John Carpenter obtained from the Bishop of 
Worcester permission to establish a chapel at Clopton. 
In 1885 the walls of that attic chamber were committed 
to the tender mercies of a paper-hanger, who presently 
discovered on them several inscriptions, in black letter, 
but who fortunately mentioned his discoveries before 
they were obliterated. Richard Savage, the antiquary, 
was called to examine them, and by him they were re- 
stored. The effect of those little patches of letters, — 



1 An entry in the Diocesan Register of Worcester states that in 1374 
" John Clopton of Stretforde obtained letters dimissory to the order of 
priest." — In 1477 Pope Sixtus the Fourth authorized John Clopton to 
perform divine service in Clopton manor-house. — Mrs. Gaskell, then Miss 
Byerley, saw the attic chapel at Clopton, in 1820, and wrote a description 
of it at that time. 



II HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 4 1 

isles of significance in a barren sea of wall-paper, — is 
that of extreme singularity. Most of them are sentences 
from the Bible. All of them are devout. One imparts 
the solemn injunction: "Whether you rise yearlye or 
goe to bed late, Remember Christ Jesus who died for 
your sake." [This may be found in John Weever's 
Funeral Monuments : 163 1.] Clopton has a long and 
various history. One of the most significant facts in 
its record is that, for about three months, in the year 
1605, it was occupied by Ambrose Rokewood, of Cold- 
ham Hall, Suffolk, a breeder of race-horses, whom 
Robert Catesby brought into the ghastly Gunpowder 
Plot, which so startled the reign of James the First. 
Hither came Sir Everard Digby, and Thomas and 
Robert Winter, and the specious Jesuit, Father Garnet, 
chief hatcher of the conspiracy, with his vile train of 
sentimental fanatics, on that pilgrimage of sanctification 
with which he formally prepared for an act of such 
hideous treachery and wholesale murder as only a relig- 
ious zealot could ever have conceived. That may have 
been a time when the little oratory of Clopton was in 
active use. Things belonging to Rokewood, who was 
captured at Hewel Grange, and was executed on Janu- 
ary 31, 1606, were found in that room, and were seized 
by the government. Mr. Fisher Tomes, resident pro- 
prietor of Clopton from 1825 to 1830, well remembered 
the inscriptions in the oratory, which in his time were 
still uncovered. Not many years since it was a bed- 
room ; but one of Sir Arthur Hodgson's guests, who 
undertook to sleep in it, was, it is said, afterward heard 
to declare that he wished not ever again to experience 
the hospitality of that chamber, because the sounds that 



42 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

he had heard, all around the place, throughout that night, 
were of a most startling description. A house contain- 
ing many rooms and staircases, a house full of long 
corridors and winding ways, a house so large that you 
may get lost in it, — such is Clopton ; and it stands in 
its own large park, removed from other buildings and 
bowered in trees. To sit in the great hall of that man- 
sion, on a winter midnight, when the snow-laden wind 
is howhng around it, and then to think of the bleak, 
sinister oratory, and the stealthy, gliding shapes up- 
stairs, invisible to mortal eye, but felt, with a shudder- 
ing sense of some unseen presence watching in the 
dark, — this would be to have quite a sufficient experi- 
ence of a haunted house. Sir Arthur Hodgson talked 
of the legends of Clopton with that merry twinkle of 
the eye which suits well with kindly incredulity. All 
the same, I thought of Milton's lines — 

" Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.'" 

The manor of Clopton was granted to John de 
Clopton by Peter de Montfort, in 1236, while Henry 
the Third was king, and the family of Clopton dwelt 
there for more than five hundred years. The Cloptons 
of Warwickshire and those of Suffolk are of the same 
family, and at Long Melford, in Suffolk, may be found 
many memorials of it. The famous Sir Hugh, — who 
built New Place in 1490, restored the Guild chapel, 
glazed the chancel of Stratford church, reared much of 
Clopton House, where he was visited by Henry the 
Seventh, and placed the bridge across the Avon at 
Stratford, where it still stands, — died in London, in 



II HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 43 

1496, and was buried at St. Margaret's, Lothbury. 
Joyce, or Jocasa, Clopton, born in 1558, became a 
lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth, and afterwards to 
Queen Anne, wife of James the First, and ultimately 
married George Carew, created Earl of Totnes and 
Baron of Clopton. Carew, born in 1557, was the son 
of a Dean of Exeter, and he became the English com- 
mander-in-chief in Ireland, in the time of Elizabeth. 
King James ennobled him, with the title of Baron Clop- 
ton, in 1605, and Charles the First made him Earl of 
Totnes, in 1625. The Earl and his Countess are buried 
in Stratford church, where their marble effigies, recum- 
bent in the Clopton pew, are among the finest monu- 
ments of that hallowed place. The Countess died in 
1636, leaving no children, and the Earl thereupon 
caused all the estates that he had acquired by marriage 
with her to be restored to the Clopton family. Sir 
John Clopton, born in 1638, married the daughter and 
co-heiress of Sir Edward Walker, owner of Clopton in 
the time of Charles the Second, and it is interesting to 
remember that by him was built the well-known house 
at Stratford, formerly called the Shoulder of Mutton,^ 
but more recently designated the Swan's Nest. Men- 
tion is made of a Sir John Clopton by whom the well 
in which Lady Margaret drowned herself was enclosed; 
it is still called Lady Margaret's Well ; a stone, at 
the back of it, is inscribed *' S. J. C. 1686." Sir John 
died in 1692, leaving a son, Sir Hugh, who died in 175 1, 

1 The original sign of the Shoulder of Mutton, which once hung before 
that house, was painted by Grubb, who also painted the remarkable por- 
trait of the Corporation Cook, which now hangs in the town hall of Strat- 
ford, — given to the borough by the late Henry Graves, of London. 



44 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

aged eighty. The last Clopton in the direct line was 
Frances, born in 1718, who married Mr. Parthenwicke, 
and died in 1792. 

Clopton House is of much antiquity, but it has under- 
gone many changes. The north and west sides of the 
present edifice were built in the time of Henry the 
Seventh. The building was originally surrounded with 
a moat.^ A part of the original structure remains at 
the back, — a porchway entrance, once accessible across 
the moat, and an oriel window at the right of that en- 
trance. Over the front window are displayed the arms 
of Clopton, — an eagle, perched upon a tun, bearing 
a shield ; and in the gable appear the arms of Walker, 
with the motto, Loyaute mon honneur. Sir Edward 
Walker was Lord of Clopton soon after the Restoration, 
and by him the entrance to the house, which used to 
be where the dining-room now is, was transferred to its 
present position. It was Walker who carried to Charles 
the Second, in Holland, in 1649, the news of the execu- 
tion of his father. A portrait of the knight, by Dobson, 
hangs on the staircase wall at Clopton, where he died 
in 1677, aged sixty-five. He was Garter-king-at-arms. 
His remains are buried in Stratford church, with an 
epitaph over them by Dugdale. Mr. Ward owned the 
estate about 1840, and under his direction many changes 
were made in the old building, — sixty workmen having 
been employed upon it for six months. The present 
drawing-room and conservatory were built by Mr. Ward, 

1 When the moat was disused three "jack bottles" were found in its 
bed, made of coarse glass, and bearing on the shoulder of each bottle the 
crest of John-a-Combe. These relics are in the collection of Sir Arthur 
Hodgson. 



44 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD ckav 

aged eighty, The last Clopton in the direct line was 
Frances, born in 1718, who married Mr. Parthenwicke, 
and died in 1792. 

Clopton House is of much antiquity, bui <. ..... ..iiac: 

gone many changes. The north and west sides of the 
present edifice were built in the time of Henry the 
Seventh. The building was originally surrounded with 
a moat.^ A part of the original structure remains at 
the back, — a porchway entrance, once accessible across 
the moat, and an oriel window at the right of that en- 
trance. Over the front window are displayed the arms 
of Clopton, — an eagle, perched upon a tun, bearing 
'd ; and in the gable appear the arms of Walker, 

^- motto. '^ -v^^HaUm^hmB'''- ^^^ Kdward 
iopton so<;n after the Restoration, 
he house, which used to 
'- was transferred to its 
present p' • ho carried to Charles 

the Second, in Hoiland, iu 1649, the news of the execu- 
tion of his father. A portrait of the knight, by Dobson, 
hangs on the staircase wall at Clopton, where he died 
in 1677, aged sixty-five. He was Garter-king-at-arms. 
His remains are buried in Stratford church, with an 
epitaph over them by Dugdale. Mr. Ward owned the 
estate about 1840, and under his direction many changes 
were made in the old building, — sixty workmen having 
been employed upon it for six months. The present 
drawing-room and conservatory were built by Mr. Ward, 

^ When the moat was disused three "jack bottles" were found in its 
bed, made of coarse glass, and bearing on the shoulder of each bottle the 
crest of John-a-Combe. These relics are in the collection of Sir Arthur 



HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 



45 



and by him the whole structure was " modernised." 
There are wild stories that autographs and other relics 
of Shakespeare once existed at Clopton, and were con- 
sumed there, in a bon-fire. A stone in the grounds 
marks the grave of a silver eagle, that was starved to 
death, through the negligence of a gamekeeper, Novem- 
ber 25, 1795. There are twenty-six notable portraits in 
the main hall of Clopton, one of them being that of 
Oliver Cromwell's mother, and another probably that 
of the unfortunate and unhappy Arabella Stuart, — only 
child of the fifth Earl of Lennox, — who died, at the 
Tower of London, in 161 5. 

Warwickshire swarmed with conspirators while the 
Gunpowder Plot was in progress. The Lion Inn at 
Dunchurch was the chief tryst of the captains who were 
to lead their forces and capture the Princess Elizabeth 
and seize the throne and the country, after the expected 
explosion, — which never came. And when the game 
was up and Fawkes in captivity, it was through War- 
wickshire that the "racing and chasing" were fleetest 
and wildest, till the desperate scramble for life and 
safety went down in blood at Hewel Grange. Various 
houses associated with that plot are still extant in this 
neighbourhood, and when the scene shifts to London 
and to Garnet's Tyburn gallows, it is easily possible for 
the patient antiquarian to tread in almost every foot- 
print of that great conspiracy. 

Since Irish ruffians began to toss dynamite about in 
public buildings it has been deemed essential to take 
especial precaution against the danger of explosion in 
such places as the Houses of Parliament, Westminster 
Abbey, and the Tower of London. Much more dam- 



CHAP. II HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 47 

age than the newspapers recorded was done by the 
explosions that occurred some time ago in the Tower 
and the Palace. At present you cannot enter even into 
Palace Yard unless connected with the public business 
or authorised by an order ; and if you visit the Tower 
without a special permit you will be restricted to. a few 
sights and places. I was fortunately the bearer of the 
card of the Lord Chamberlain, on a recent prowl 
through the Tower, and therefore was favoured by the 
beef-eaters who pervade that structure. Those damp 
and gloomy dungeons were displayed wherein so many 
Jews perished miserably in the reign of Edward the 
First ; and Little Ease was shown, — the cell in which 
for several months Guy Fawkes was incarcerated, dur- 
ing Cecil's wily investigation of the Gunpowder Plot. 
A part of the rear wall has been removed, affording ac- 
cess to the adjacent dungeon ; but originally the cell 
did not give room for a man to lie down in it, and 
scarce gave room for him to stand upright. The mas- 
sive door, of ribbed and iron-bound oak, still solid, 
though worn, would make an impressive picture. A 
poor, stealthy cat was crawling about in those subter- 
ranean dens of darkness and horror, and was left locked 
in there when we emerged. In St. Peter's, on the green, 
— that little cemetery so eloquently described by Macau- 
lay, — they came, some time ago, upon the coffins of 
Lovat, Kilmarnock, and Balmerino, the Scotch lords who 
perished upon the block for their complicity with the 
rising for the Pretender, in 1745-47. The coffins were 
much decayed. The plates were removed, and these 
may now be viewed, in a glass case on the church wall, 
over against the spot where those unfortunate gentle- 



48 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



men were buried.^ One is of lead and is in the form of 
a large open scroll. The other two are oval in shape, 
large, and made of pewter. Much royal and noble dust 
is heaped together beneath the stones of the chancel, — 
Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Lady Jane Grey, Mar- 
garet, Duchess of Salisbury, the Duke of Monmouth, 
the Earl of Northumberland, Essex, Overbury, Thomas 




Warwick Castle, from the River. 

Cromwell, and many more. The body of the infamous 
and execrable Jeffreys was once buried there, but it has 
been removed. 

St. Mary's church at Warwick has been restored since 
1885, and now it is made a show place. The pilgrim 

1 It is said that the remains of Lord Lovat were, soon after his execu- 
tion, secretly removed, and buried at his home near Inverness, and that the 
head was sewed to the body. 



II HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 49 

may see the Beauchamp chapel, in which are entombed 
Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, the founder of 
the church ; Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, in whose 
Latin epitaph it is stated that *' his sorrowful wife, Lae- 
titia, daughter of Francis Knolles, through a sense of 
conjugal love and fidelity, hath put up this monument 
to the best and dearest of husbands " ; ^ Ambrose Dud- 
ley, elder brother to Elizabeth's favourite, and known as 
the Good Earl [he relinquished his title and possessions 
to Robert] ; and that Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, who 
lives in fame as **the friend of Sir Philip Sidney." 
There are other notable sleepers in that chapel, but 
these perhaps are the most famous and considerable. 
One odd epitaph records of William Viner, steward to 
Lord Brooke, that " he was a man entirely of ancient 
manners, and to whom you will scarcely find an equal, 
particularly in point of liberality. . . . He was added 
to the number of the heavenly inhabitants maturely for 
himself, but prematurely for his friends, in his 70th 
year, on the 28th of April, a.d. 1639." Another, 
placed for himself by Thomas Hewett during his life- 

1 Robert Dudley [1532-1588] seems not to have been an admirable 
man, but certain facts of his life appear to have been considerably mis- 
represented. He married Amy Robsart, daughter of Sir John Robsart, of 
Siderstern, Norfolk, on June 4, 1550, publicly, and in presence of King 
Edward the Sixth. Amy Robsart never became Countess of Leicester, 
but died, in 1560, four years before Dudley became Earl of Leicester, by 
a " mischance," — namely, an accidental fall downstairs, — at Cumnor Hall, 
near Abingdon. She was not at Kenilworth, as represented in Scott's 
novel, at the time of the great festival in honour of Queen Elizabeth, in 
1575, because at that time she had been dead fifteen years. Dudley 
secretly married Douglas Howard, Lady Sheffield, in 1572-73, but would 
never acknowledge her. His third wife was the Laetitia whose affection 
deplores him, in the Beauchamp chapel. 
D 



50 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, ii 

time, modestly describes him as " a most miserable sin- 
ner." Sin is always miserable when it knows itself. 
Still another, and this in good verse, by Gervas Clifton, 
gives a tender tribute to Laetitia, "the excellent and 
pious Lady Lettice," Countess of Leicester, who died 
on Christmas morning, 1634: 

" She that in her 3'ounger years 
Matched with two great English peers ; 
She that did supply the wars 
With thunder, and the Court with stars ; 
She that in her youth had been 
Darling to the maiden Queene, 
Till she was content to quit 
Her favour for her favourite. . . . 
While she lived she lived thus, 
Till that God, displeased with us, 
Suffered her at last to fall, ' 

Not from Him but from us all." 

A noble bust of that fine thinker and exquisite poet 
Walter Savage Landor has been placed on the west wall 
of St. Mary's church. He was a native of Warwick and 
he is fitly commemorated in that place. The bust is of 
alabaster and is set in an alabaster arch with carved en- 
vironment, and with the family arms displayed above. 
The head of Landor shows great intellectual power, 
rugged yet gentle. Coming suddenly upon the bust, 
in this church, the pilgrim is forcibly and pleasantly 
reminded of the attribute of sweet and gentle reverence 
in the English character, which so invariably expresses 
itself, all over this land, in honourable memorials to the 
honourable dead. No rambler in Warwick omits to 
explore Leicester's hospital, or to see as much as he can 
of the Castle. That glorious old place has long been 



52 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



kept closed, for fear of the dynamite fiend ; but now it 
is once more accessible. I walked again beneath the 
stately cedars^ and along the bloom-bordered avenues 
where once Joseph Addison used to wander and medi- 
tate, and traversed again those opulent state apartments 
wherein so many royal, noble, and beautiful faces look 
forth from the radiant canvas of Holbein and Vandyke. 
There is a wonderful picture, in one of those rooms, of 
Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, when a young 
man, — a face prophetic of stormy life, baleful struggles, 
and a hard and miserable fate. You may see the hel- 
met that was worn by Oliver Cromwell, and also a strik- 
ing death-mask of his face ; and some of the finest 
portraits of Charles the First that exist in this king- 
dom are shown at Warwick Castle. 

1 Those cedars are ranked with the most superb trees in the British 
Islands. Two of the group were torn up by the roots during a terrific gale, 
which swept across England, leaving ruin in its track, on Sunday, March 
24, 1895. 



i 11 II 


iiiiiiiiiiifiii 


A#*l 


^mm 


'5k==i 



Fr-oni the Warwick Shield. 




^i>msmw^3MWWM^wmw^mmm^m 



CHAPTER III 



OLD YORK 




ORK, August 12, 1888. — All summer 
long the sorrowful skies have been weep- 
mg over England, and my first prospect 
of this ancient city was a prospect through 
drizzle and mist. Yet even so it was im- 
pressive. York is one of the quaintest 
cities in the kingdom. Many of the streets are narrow 
and crooked. Most of the buildings are of low stature, 
built of brick, and roofed with red tiles. Here and 
there you find a house of Queen Elizabeth's time, pict- 
uresque with overhanging timber-crossed fronts and 
peaked gables. One such house, in Stonegate, is con- 
spicuously marked with its date, 1574. Another, in 
College street, enclosing a quadrangular court and 
lovely with old timber and carved gateway, was built 
by the Neville family in 1460. There is a wide area 
in the centre of the town called Parliament street, 
where the market is opened, by torchlight, on certain 
evenings of every week. It was market-time last even- 
ing, and, wandering through the motley and merry 
crowd that filled the square, about nine o'clock, I 

53 



54 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



bought, at a flower-stall, the white rose of York and the 
red rose of Lancaster, — twining them together as an 
emblem of the settled peace that here broods so sweetly 
over the venerable relics of a wild and stormy past. 

Four sections of the old wall of York are still extant 
and the observer is amused to perceive the ingenuity 
with which those gray and mouldering remnants of the 
feudal age are blended into the structures of the demo- 



•---•If 




Bootham Bar. 



cratic present. From Bootham to Monk Gate, — so 
named in honour of General Monk, at the Restoration, 
— a distance of about half a mile, the wall is absorbed 
by the adjacent buildings. But you may walk upon it 
from Monk Gate to Jewbury, about a quarter of a mile, 
and afterward, crossing the Foss, you may find it 
again on the southeast of the city, and walk upon it 



Ill OLD YORK 55 

from Red Tower to old Fishergate, descending near 
York Castle. There are houses both within the walls 
and without. The walk is about eight feet wide, pro- 
tected on one hand by a fretted battlement and on the 
other by an occasional bit of iron fence. The base of 
the wall, for a considerable part of its extent, is fringed 
with market gardens or with grassy banks. In one of 
its towers there is a gate-house, still occupied as a 
dwelling; and a comfortable dwelling no doubt it is. 
In another, of which nothing now remains but the 
walls, four large trees are rooted; and, as they are 
already tall enough to wave their leafy tops above the 
battlement, they must have been growing there for at 
least twenty years. At one point the Great Northern 
Railway enters through an arch in the ancient wall, 
and as you look down from the battlements your gaze 
rests upon long lines of rail and a spacious station, 
together with its adjacent hotel, — objects which consort 
but strangely with what your fancy knows of York ; 
a city of donjons and barbicans, the moat, the draw- 
bridge, the portcullis, the citadel, the man-at-arms, and 
the knight in armour, with the banners of William the 
Norman flowing over all. 

The river Ouse divides the city of York, which lies 
mostly upon its east bank, and in order to reach the 
longest and most attractive portion of the wall that is 
now available to the pedestrian you must cross the 
Ouse, either at Skeldergate or Lendal, paying a half- 
penny as toll, both when you go and when you return. 
The walk here is three-quarters of a mile long, and 
from an angle of this wall, just above the railway arch, 
may be obtained the best view of the mighty cathedral. 



56 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

— one of the most stupendous and sublime works that 
ever were erected by the inspired brain and loving 
labour of man. While I walked there last night, and 
mused upon the story of the Wars of the Roses, and 
strove to conjure up the pageants and the horrors that 
must have been presented, all about this region, in that 
remote and turbulent past, the glorious bells of the 
minster were chiming from its towers, while the fresh 
evening breeze, sweet with the fragrance of wet flowers 
and foliage, seemed to flood this ancient, venerable city 
with the golden music of a celestial benediction. 

The pilgrim to York stands in the centre of the 
largest shire in England and is surrounded with castles 
and monasteries, now mostly in ruins but teeming with 
those associations of history and literature that are the 
glory of this dehghtful land. From the summit of the 
great central tower of the cathedral, which is reached 
by two hundred and thirty-seven steps, I gazed out 
over the vale of York and beheld one of the loveliest 
spectacles that ever blessed the eyes of man. The 
wind was fierce, the sun brilliant, and the vanquished 
storm-clouds were streaming away before the northern 
blast. Far beneath lay the red-roofed city, its devious 
lanes and its many gray churches, — crumbling relics of 
ancient ecclesiastical power, — distinctly visible. Through 
the plain, and far away toward the south and east, ran 
the silver thread of the Ouse, while all around, as far 
as the eye could reach, stretched forth a smiling land- 
scape of emerald meadow and cultivated field ; here a 
patch of woodland, and there a silver gleam of wave ; 
here a manor-house nestled amid stately trees, and 
there an ivy-covered fragment of ruined masonry ; and 



Ill 



OLD YORK 



57 



everywhere the green lines of the flowering hedge. 
The prospect is even finer here than it is from the 
splendid summit of Strasbm-g cathedral ; and indeed, 
when all is said that can be said about natural scenery 
and architectural sublimities, it seems amazing that any 
lover of the beautiful should deem it necessary to quit 
the infinite variety of the British islands. Earth can- 







Vori Cathedral— West Front. 



not show you anything more softly fair than the lakes 
and mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. No 
city can excel Edinburgh in stately solidity of char- 
acter, or tranquil grandeur, or magnificence of position. 
The most exquisitely beautiful of churches is Roslin 
chapel. And though you search the wide world through 
you will never find such cathedrals, — so fraught with 



58 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

majesty, sublimity, the loveliness of human art, and the 
ecstatic sense of a divine element in human destiny, — 
as those of York, Canterbury, Gloucester, and Lincoln. 
While thus I lingered in wondering meditation upon 
the crag-like summit of York minster, the muffled 
thunder of its vast, sonorous organ rose, rolling and 
throbbing, from the mysterious depth below, and seemed 
to shake the great tower as with a mighty blast of jubi- 
lation and worship. At such moments, if ever, when 
the tones of human adoration are floating up to heaven, 
a man is lifted out of himself and made to forget his 
puny mortal existence and all the petty nothings that 
weary his spirit, darken his vision, and weigh him 
down to the level of the sordid, trivial world. Well 
did they know this, — those old monks who built the 
abbeys of Britain, laying their foundations not alone 
deeply in the earth but deeply in the human soul ! 

All the ground that you survey from the top of York 
minster is classic ground, — at least to those persons 
whose imaginations are kindled by associations with the 
stately and storied past. In the city that lies at your 
feet once stood the potent Constantine, to be proclaimed 
emperor [a.d. 306] and to be vested with the imperial 
purple of Rome. In the original York minster, — for 
the present is the fourth church that has been erected 
upon this site, — was buried that valiant soldier "old 
Siward," whom "gracious England" lent to the Scot- 
tish cause, under Malcolm and Macduff, when time at 
length was ripe for the ruin of Glamis and Cawdor. 
Close by is the field of Stamford, where Harold de- 
feated the Norwegians, with terrible slaughter, only nine 
days before he was himself defeated and slain at Has- 



Ill OLD YORK 59 

tings. Southward, following the line of the Ouse, you 
look down upon the ruins of Clifford's Tower, built by 
William the Conqueror, in 1068, and destroyed by the 
explosion of its powder magazine in 1684. Not far 
away is the battlefield of Towton, where the great War- 
wick slew his horse, that he might fight on foot and pos- 
sess no advantage over the common soldiers of his force. 
Henry the Sixth and Margaret were waiting in York 
for news of the event of that fatal battle, — which, 
in its effect, made them exiles and bore to an assured 
supremacy the rightful standard of the White Rose. 
In this church Edward the Fourth was crowned [1464], 
and Richard the Third was proclaimed king and had 
his second coronation. Southward you may see the 
open space called the Pavement, connecting with Par- 
liam-cnt street, and the red brick church of St. Crux. 
In the Pavement the Earl of Northumberland was be- 
headed, for treason against Queen Elizabeth, in 1572, 
and in St. Crux [one of Wren's churches] his remains 
lie buried, beneath a dark blue slab, still shown to vis- 
itors. A few miles away, but easily within reach of 
your vision, is the field of Marston Moor, where the im- 
petuous Prince Rupert imperilled and well-nigh lost the 
cause of Charles the First, in 1644; and as you look 
toward that fatal spot you can almost hear, in the cham- 
ber of your fancy, the paeans of thanksgiving for the vic- 
tory that were uttered in the church beneath. Cromwell, 
then a subordinate ofilicer in the Parliamentary army, 
was one of the worshippers. Charles also has knelt at 
this altar. Indeed, of the fifteen kings, from William 
of Normandy to Henry of Windsor, whose sculptured 
effigies appear upon the chancel screen in York minster, 



6o 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



there is scarcely one who has not worshipped in this 
cathedral. 

York minster has often been described, but no de- 
scription can convey an adequate impression of its 
grandeur. Canterbury is the lovelier cathedral of the 
two, though not the grander, and Canterbury possesses 
the inestimable advantage of a spacious close. It must 
be said also, for the city of Canterbury, that the pres- 
ence and influence of a great church are more distinctly 
and delightfully felt in that place than they are in York. 
There is a more spiritual tone at Canterbury, a tone of 






m 



^^^^lau- 



^^fr?^ 



York Cathedral — South Side. 



superior delicacy and refinement, a certain aristocratic 
coldness and repose. In York you perceive the coarse 
spirit of a democratic era. The walls, that ought to be 
cherished with scrupulous care, are found in many 
places to be ill-used. At intervals along the walks 
upon the banks of the Ouse you behold placards re- 
questing the co-operation of the public in protecting 
from harm the swans that navigate the river. Even in 
the cathedral itself there is displayed a printed notice 
that the Dean and Chapter are amazed at disturbances 



Ill OLD YORK 6 1 

which occur in the nave while divine service is proceed- 
ing in the choir. These things imply a rough element 
in the population, and in such a place as York such an 
element is exceptionally offensive and deplorable. 

It was said by the wise Lord Beaconsfield that progress 
in the nineteenth century is found to consist chiefly in 
a return to ancient ideas. There may be places to which 
the characteristic spirit of the present day contributes 
an element of beauty ; but if so I have not seen them. 
Wherever there is beauty there is the living force of 
tradition to account for it. The most that a conserva- 
tive force in society can accomplish, for the preserva- 
tion of an instinct in favour of whatever is beautiful and 
impressive, is to protect what remains from the past. 
Modern Edinburgh, for example, has contributed no 
building that is comparable with its glorious old castle, 
or with Roslin, or with what we know to have been 
Melrose or Dryburgh ; but its castle and its chapels are 
protected and preserved. York, in the present day, 
erects a commodious railway-station and a sumptuous 
hotel, and spans its ample river with two splendid 
bridges ; but its modern architecture is puerile beside 
that of its ancient minster ; and so its best work, after 
all, is the preservation of its cathedral. The observer 
finds it difficult to understand how anybody, however 
lowly born or poorly endowed or meanly nurtured, can 
live within the presence of that heavenly building, and 
not be purified and exalted by the contemplation of so 
much majesty, and by its constantly irradiative force of 
religious sentiment and power. But the spirit which in 
the past created objects of beauty and adorned common 
life with visible manifestations of the celestial aspiration 



62 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



in human nature had constantly to struggle against in- 
sensibility or violence ; and just so the few who have 
inherited that spirit in the present day are compelled 
steadily to combat the hard materialism and gross ani- 
mal proclivities of the new age. 




^ 



York Cathedral — F.ast Front. 



What a comfort their souls must find in such an 
edifice as York minster ! What a solace and what an 
inspiration ! There it stands, dark and lonely to-night, 
but symbolising, as no other object upon earth can ever 
do, except one of its own great kindred, God's promise 



Ill OLD YORK 63 

of immortal life to man, and man's unquenchable faith 
in the jDromise of God. Dark and lonely now, but 
during many hours of its daily and nightly life sentient, 
eloquent, vital, participating in all the thought, conduct, 
and experience of those who dwell around it. The 
beautiful peal of its bells that I heard last night was for 
Canon Baillie, one of the oldest and most beloved and 
venerated of its clergy. This morning, sitting in its 
choir, I heard the tender, thoughtful eulogy so simply 
and sweetly spoken by the aged Dean, and once again 
learned the essential lesson that an old age of grace, 
patience, and benignity means a pure heart, an unself- 
ish spirit, and a good life passed in the service of 
others. This afternoon I had a place among the wor- 
shippers that thronged the nave to hear the special 
anthem chanted for the deceased Canon ; and, as the 
organ pealed forth its mellow thunder, and the rich 
tones of the choristers swelled and rose and broke in 
golden waves of melody upon the groined arches and 
vaulted roof, my soul seemed borne away to a peace 
and rest that are not of this world. To-night the rising 
moon as she gleams through drifting clouds, will pour 
her silver rays upon that great east window, — at once 
the largest and the most beautiful in existence, — and all 
the Bible stories told there in such exquisite hues and 
forms will glow with heavenly lustre on the dark vista 
of chancel and nave. And when the morning comes 
the first beams of the rising sun will stream through 
the great casement and illumine the figures of saints 
and archbishops, and gild the old tattered battle-flags 
in the chancel aisle, and touch with blessing the marble 
effigies of the dead ; and we who walk there, refreshed 



64 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

and comforted, shall feel that the vast cathedral is 
indeed the gateway to heaven. 

York minster is the loftiest of all the English cathedrals, 
and the third in length,^ — both St. Albans and Winches- 
ter being longer. The present structure is six hundred 
years old, and more than two hundred years were occu- 
pied in the building of it. They show you, in the crypt, 
some fine remains of the Norman church that preceded 
it upon the same site, together with traces of the still 
older Saxon church that preceded the Norman. The 
first one was of wood and was totally destroyed. The 
Saxon remains are a fragment of stone staircase and 
a piece of wall built in the ancient herring-bone fashion. 
The Norman remains are four clustered columns, em- 
bellished in the zigzag style. There is not much of 
commemorative statuary at York minster, and what 
there is of it was placed chiefly in the chancel. Arch- 
bishop Richard Scrope, who figures in Shakespeare's 
historical play of Henry the FoiirtJi, and who was be- 
headed for treason in 1405, was buried in the lady 
chapel. Laurence Sterne's grandfather, who was 
chaplain to Laud, is represented there, in his ecclesi- 
astical dress, reclining upon a couch and supporting 
his mitred head upon his hand, — a squat figure uncom- 
fortably posed, but sculptured with delicate skill. Many 
historic names occur in the inscriptions, — Wentworth, 
Finch, Fenwick, Carlisle, and Heneage, — and in the 
north aisle of the chancel is the tomb of William of 
Hatfield, second son of Edward the Third, who died in 

1 Winchester 
St. Albans 
York. . . . , 



Length. 


Height of Tower 


556 ft. 


138 ft. 


548 ft. 4 in. 


144 ft. 


524 ft. 6 in. 


213 ft. 



Ill . OLD YORK 65 

1343-44, in the eighth year of his age. An alabaster 
statue of the royal boy reclines upon his tomb. In the 
cathedral library, which contains eight thousand volumes 
and is kept at the Deanery, is the Princess Elizabeth's 
prayer-book, containing her autograph. In one of the 
chapels is the original throne-chair of Edward the Third. 
In St. Leonard's Place still stands the York theatre, 
erected by Tate Wilkinson in 1765. In York Castle 
Eugene Aram was imprisoned and suffered death. 
The poet and bishop Beilby Porteus, the sculptor 
Flaxman, the grammarian Lindley Murray, and the 
fanatic Guy Fawkes were natives of York, and have 
often walked its streets. Standing on Skeldergate 
bridge, few readers of English fiction could fail to recall 
that exquisite description of the place, in the novel of 
No Name. In his artistic use of weather, atmosphere, 
and colour Wilkie Collins is always remarkable equally 
for his fidelity to nature and fact, and for the felicity 
and beauty of his language. His portrayal of York 
seems more than ever a gem of literary art, when you 
have seen the veritable spot of poor Magdalen's meet- 
ing with Captain Wragge. The name of Wragge is on 
one of the signboards in the city. The river, on which 
I did not omit to take a boat, was picturesque, with its 
many quaint barges, bearing masts and sails and em- 
bellished with touches of green and crimson and blue. 
There is no end to the associations and suggestions of 
the storied city. But lest my readers weary of them, 
let me respect the admonition of the midnight bell, and 
seek repose beneath the hospitable wing of the old 
Black Swan in Coney street, whence I send this hum- 
ble memorial of ancient York. 




CHAPTER IV 



THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 




EVIZES, Wiltshire, August 20, 1888. 
— The scarlet discs of the poppies and 
the red and white blooms of the clover, 
together with wild-flowers of many hues, 
bespangle now the emerald sod of Eng- 
land, while the air is rich with fragrance of lime-trees 
and of new-mown hay. The busy and sagacious rooks, 
fat and bold, wing their way in great clusters, bent on 
forage and mischief. There is almost a frosty chill in 
the autumnal air, and the brimming rivers, dark and 
deep and smoothly flowing through the opulent, culti- 
vated, and park-like region of Wiltshire, look cold and 
bright. In many fields the hay is cut and stacked. In 
others the men, and often the women, armed with rakes, 
are tossing it to dry in the reluctant, intermittent, bleak 
sunshine of this rigorous August. Overhead the sky 
is now as blue as the deep sea and now grim and omi- 
nous with great drifting masses of slate-coloured cloud. 
There are moments of beautiful sunshine by day, and 

66 



CHAP, IV 



THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 



67 



in some hours of the night the moon shines forth in all 
her pensive and melancholy glory. It is a time of ex- 
quisite loveliness, and it has seemed a fitting time for 
a visit to the last English home and the last resting- 
place of the poet of loveliness and love, the great Irish 
poet Thomas Moore. 

When Moore first went up to London, a young author 
seeking to launch 
his earliest writ- 
ings upon the 
stream of contem- 
porary literature, 
he crossed from 
Dublin to Bristol 
and then travelled 
to the capital by 
way of Bath and 
Devizes ; and as 
he crossed several 
times he must soon 
have gained famil- 
iarity with this part 
of the country. He 
did not, however, 
settle in Wiltshire 
until some years afterward. His first lodging in London 
was a front room, up two pair of stairs, at No. 44 George 
street, Portman square. He subsequently lived at No. 
46 Wigmore street, Cavendish square, and at No. 27 
Bury street, St. James's. This was in 1805. In 1810 
he resided for a time at No. 22 Molesworth street, 
Dublin, but he soon returned to EnHand. One of 




Thomas Moore. 



68 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

his homes, shortly after his marriage with Ehzabeth 
Dyke [''Bessie,'* the sister of the great actress Mary 
Duff, 1 794-1 857] was in Brompton. In the spring of 
18 1 2 he settled at Kegworth, but a year later he is 
found at Mayfield Cottage, near Ashbourne, Derbyshire. 
" I am now as you wished," he wrote to Mr. Power, the 
music-publisher, July i, 18 13, ''within twenty-four hours' 
drive of town." In 18 17 he occupied a cottage near the 
foot of Muswell Hill, at Hornsey, Middlesex, but after 
he lost his daughter Barbara, who died there, the place 
became distressful to him and he left it. In the latter 
part of September that year, the time of their afflic- 
tion, Moore and his Bessie were the guests of Lady 
Donegal, at No, 56 Davies street, Berkeley square, 
London. Then [November 19, 18 17] they removed to 
Sloperton Cottage, at Bromham, near Devizes, and 
their permanent residence was established in that place. 
Lord Landsdowne, one of the poet's earliest and best 
friends, was the owner of that estate, and doubtless he 
was the impulse of Moore's resort to it. The present 
Lord Landsdowne still owns Bowood Park, about four 
miles away. 

Devizes impresses a stranger with a singular and 
pleasant sense of suspended animation, — as of beauty 
fallen asleep, — the sense of something about to happen, 
which never occurs. More peaceful it could not be, 
unless it were dead, — and that is its most alluring 
charm. Two of its many streets are remarkably wide 
and spacious, while the others are narrow and often 
crooked. Most of its habitations are low houses, built 
of brick, and only a few of them, such as the old Town 
Hall and the Corn Exchange, are pretentious as archi- 



IV THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 69 

tecture. The principal street runs nearly northwest 
and southeast. There is a north gate at one end of it, 
and a south gate at the other, but no remnant of the 
ancient town gates is left. The Kennet and Avon 
Canal, built in 1 794-1 805, skirts the northern side 
of the town, and thereafter descends the western slope, 
passing through twenty-seven magnificent locks, within 
a distance of about two miles, — one of the longest con- 
secutive ranges of locks in England. The stateliest 
building in Devizes is its noble Castle, which, reared 
upon a massive hill, at once dominates the surrounding 
landscape and dignifies it. That splendid edifice, built 
about 1830, stands upon the site of the ancient Castle 
of Devizes, which was built by Roger, Bishop of Salis- 
bury, in the reign of Henry the First, and it resembles 
that famous original, — long esteemed one of the most 
complete and admirable works of its kind in Europe. 
The old Castle was included in the dowry settled upon 
successive queens of England. Queen Margaret pos- 
sessed it in the reign of Henry the Sixth, and Queen 
Katharine in that of Henry the Eighth. It figured in 
the Civil Wars, and it was deemed the strongest citadel 
in England. The poet-soldier, Edmund Waller, when in 
the service of the Parliament, bombarded it, in 1643, 
and finally it was destroyed by order of the Round- 
heads. Toward the close of the eighteenth century its 
ruins were, it is said, surmounted with a couple of snuff- 
mills. No part of the ancient fortress now survives, 
except the moat ; but in its pleasant grounds frag- 
mentary remnants may still be seen of its foundations 
and of the dungeons of a remote age. During the re- 
building of the Castle many relics were unearthed, — 



70 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



such as human bones and implements of war, — the 
significant tokens of dark days and fatal doings long 
since past and gone. In the centre of the town is a 




The Bear — Devizes. 

commodious public square, known as the Market-place, 
— a wide domain of repose, as I saw it, uninvaded by 
either vehicle or human being, but on each Thursday the 



IV THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 71 

scene of the weekly market for cattle and corn, and of 
the loquacious industry of the cheap-jack and the quack. 
On one side of it is the old Bear Hotel, an exceptionally 
comfortable house, memorable as the birthplace of Sir 
Thomas Lawrence, the famous artist [i 769-1 830]. In 
the centre are two works of art, — one a fountain, the 
other a cross. The latter, a fine fabric of Gothic archi- 
tecture, is embellished with thirteen pinnacles, which 
rise above an arched canopy, the covering of a statue. 
One face of the cross bears this legend : " This Market 
Cross was erected by Henry Viscount Sidmouth, as a 
memorial of his grateful attachment to the Borough of 
Devizes, of which he has been Recorder thirty years, 
and of which he was six times unanimously chosen a 
representative in Parliament. Anno Domini 18 14." 
Upon the other face appears a record more significant, 
— being indicative equally of credulity and a frugal 
mind, and being freighted with tragic import un- 
matched since the Bible narrative of Ananias and 
Sapphira. It reads thus : 

''The Mayor and Corporation of Devizes avail themselves of the 
stability of this building to transmit to future times the record of an 
awful event which occurred in this market-place in the year 1753, 
hoping that such a record may serve as a salutary warning against 
the danger of impiously invoking the Divine vengeance, or of call- 
ing on the holy name of God to conceal the devices of falsehood 
and fraud. 

"On Thursday, the 25th January 1753, Ruth Pierce, of Potterne, 
in this county, agreed, with three other women, to buy a sack of 
wheat in the market, each paying her due proportion toward the 
same. 

" One of these women, in collecting the several quotas of money, 
discovered a deficiency, and demanded of Ruth Pierce the sum 
which was wanted to make good the amount. 



72 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

" Ruth Pierce protested that she had paid her share, and said, 
' She wished she might drop down dead if she had not.' 

" She rashly repeated this awful wish, when, to the consternation 
of the surrounding multitude, she instantly fell down and expired, 
having the money concealed in her hand." 

That is not the only grim incident in the history of 
the Market-place of Devizes ; for in 1533 a poor tailor, 
named John Bent, of the neighbouring village of Urch- 
font was burnt at the stake, in that square, for his 
avowed disbelief of the doctrine of transubstantiation. 

An important and deeply interesting institution of 
Devizes is the Wilts County Museum, in Long street, 
devoted to the natural history and the archaeology of 
Wiltshire. The library contains a priceless collection 
of Wiltshire books, and the museum is rich in geologi- 
cal specimens, — richer even than the excellent museum 
of Salisbury ; for, in addition to other treasures, it in- 
cludes the famous Stourhead collection, made by Sir 
Richard Colt Hoare, — being relics from the ancient 
British and Saxon barrows on the Wiltshire downs. 
The Stourhead collection is described by Sir Richard, 
in his book on ''Antient Wilts." Its cinerary and culi- 
nary urns are fine and numerous. The Wilts County 
Museum is fortunate in its curator, B. Howard Cun- 
nington, Esq., of Rowde — an indefatigable student, 
devoted to Wiltshire, and a thorough antiquarian. 

An interesting church in Devizes is that of St. John, 
the Norman tower of which is a relic of the days of 
Henry the Second, a vast, grim structure with a 
circular turret on one corner of it. Eastward of this 
church is a long and lovely avenue of trees, and around 
it lies a large burial-place, remarkable for the excel- 



THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 



73 



lence of the sod and for the number visible of those 
heavy, gray, oblong masses of tombstone which appear 





**-'- bL/;-: 1 






..r^'l I > 



wv-mm 






%-^^^ll1Bt:^lfc 



^ 



-^- v;. 









\jv. 



St. John's Church — Devizes. 



74 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

to have obtained great public favour about the time of 
Cromwell. In the centre of the churchyard stands a 
monolith, inscribed with these words : 

"Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy. — This monu- 
ment, as a solemn monitor to Young People to remember their 
Creator in the days of their youth, was erected by subscription. -^ 
In memory of the sudden and awful end of Robert Merrit and his 
wife, Eliz. Tiley, her sister, Martha Carter, and Josiah Denham, 
who were drowned, in the flower of their youth, in a pond, near this 
town, called Drews, on Sunday evening, the 30th of June, 175 1, 
and are together underneath entombed. '' 

In one corner of the churchyard I came upon a cross, 
bearing a simple legend far more solemn, touching, and 
admonitory : " In Memoriam — Robert Samuel Thorn- 
ley. Died August 5, 1871. Aged 48 years. For 
fourteen years surgeon to the poor of Devizes. There 
shall be no more pain." And over still another sleeper 
was written, upon a flat stone, low in the ground — 

" Loving, beloved, in all relations true. 
Exposed to follies, but subdued by few : 
Reader, reflect, and copy if you can 
The simple virtues of this honest man.'" 

Nobody is in haste in Devizes, and the pilgrim who 
seeks for peace could not do better than to tarry here. 
The city bell which officially strikes the hours is sub- 
dued and pensive, and although reinforced with chimes, 
it seems ever to speak under its breath. The church- 
bell, however, rings long and vigorously and with much 
melodious clangour, — as though the local sinners were 
more than commonly hard of hearing. Near to the 
church of St. John, are some quaint almshouses, but not 
much seems to be known of their history. One of 



THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 



75 



them was founded as a hospital for lepers, before a.d. 
1207, and it is thought that one of them was built of 
stone which remained after the erection of the church. 










y 'Ju I, 









Huiigerford Chapel — Devizes. 



Those almshouses are now governed by the Mayor and 
Corporation of Devizes, but perhaps formerly they were 
under the direct control of the Crown. [See Tanner's 



"16 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

Nolitia.'] There are seven endowments, one dating 
back to 1641, and the houses are to this day occupied 
by widows, recommended by the churchwardens of 
St. Mary's and St, John's. An old inhabitant of 
Devizes, named Bancroft, left a sum of money to in- 
sure for himself a singular memorial service, — that the 
bells of St. John's church should be solemnly tolled 
on the day of his birth, and rung merrily on that of his 
death ; and that service is duly performed every year. 
Devizes is a fit place for the survival of ancient cus- 
toms, and these serve very pleasantly to mark its pecul- 
iar and interesting character. The Town Crier, who is 
a member of the Corporation, walks abroad arrayed 
in a helmet and a uniform of brilliant scarlet, — glories 
that are worn by no other Crier in the kingdom, ex- 
cepting that of York. 

As I was gazing at the old church, surrounded with 
many ponderous tombstones and gray and cheerless in 
the gloaming, an old man approached me and civilly be- 
gan a conversation about the antiquity of the building 
and the eloquence of its rector. When I told him that 
I had walked to Bromham to attend the service there, 
and to see the cottage and grave of Moore, he presently 
furnished to me that little touch of personal testimony 
which is always so interesting and significant in such 
circumstances. *' I remember Tom Moore," he said; 
" I saw him when he was alive. I worked for him once 
in his house, and I did some work once on his tomb. 
He was a little man. He spoke to us very pleasantly. 
I don't think he was a preacher. He never preached 
that I heard tell of. He was a poet, I believe. He was 
very much liked here. I never heard a word against 



IV THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 77 

him. I am seventy-nine years old the thirteenth of 
December, and that'll soon be here. I've had three 
wives in my time, and my third is still living. It's a 
fine old church, and there's figures in it of bishops, and 
kings, and queens." 

Most observers have remarked the odd way, garrulous, 
and sometimes unconsciously humorous, in which senile 
persons prattle their incongruous and sporadic recollec- 
tions. But — "How pregnant sometimes his replies 
are ! " Another resident of Devizes, with whom I con- 
versed, likewise remembered the poet, and spoke of him 
with affectionate respect. '' My sister, when she was a 
child," he said, " was often at Moore's house, and he 
was fond of her. Yes, his name is widely remembered 
and honoured here. But I think that many of the 
people hereabout, the farmers, admired him chiefly be- 
cause they thought that he wrote Moore's Almanac. 
They used to say to him : ' Mister Moore, please tell us 
what the weather's going to be.' " 

From Devizes to the village of Bromham, a distance 
of about four miles, the walk is delightful. Much of 
the path is between green hedges and is embowered by 
elms. The exit from the town is by Northgate and 
along the Chippenham road — which, like all the roads 
in this neighbourhood, is smooth, hard, and white. A 
little way out of Devizes, going northwest, this road 
makes a deep cut in the chalk-stone and so winds down- 
hill into the level plain. At intervals you come upon 
sweetly pretty specimens of the English thatch-roof 
cottage. Hay-fields, pastures, and market-gardens ex- 
tend on every hand. Eastward, far off, are visible 
the hills of Westbury, upon which, here and there, the 



78 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

copses are lovely, and upon one of which, cut in the 
turf, is the figure of a colossal white horse, said to 
have been put there by the Saxons, to commemorate 
a victory by King Alfred. ^ Soon the road winds over a 
hill and you pass through the little red village .of 
Rowde, with its gray church tower. The walk may be 
shortened by a cut across the fields, and this indeed is 
found the prettiest part of the journey, — for now the 
path lies through gardens, and through the centre or 
along the margin of the wheat, which waves in the 
strong wind and sparkles in the bright sunshine and is 
everywhere tenderly touched with the scarlet of the 
poppy and with hues of other wild-flowers, making you 
think of Shakespeare's 

'• Crowned with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, 
With hemlock, harlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, 
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow 
In our sustaining corn.''' 

There is one field through which I passed, just as the 
spire of Bromham church came into view, in which 
a surface more than three hundred yards square was 
blazing with wild-flowers, white and gold and crimson 
and purple and blue, upon a plain of vivid green, so that 
to look upon it was almost to be dazzled, while the air 
that floated over it was scented as if with honeysuckle. 
You may see the delicate spire and the low gray tower 

1 The White Horse upon the side of the hill at Westbury was made by 
removing the turf in such a way as to show the white chalk beneath, in 
the shape of a horse. The tradition is that this was done by command 
of Alfred, in Easter week, A.D. 878, to signalise his victory over the Danes, 
at Oetlandune, or Eddington, at the foot of the hill. Upon the top of 
that hill there is the outline of an ancient Roman camp. 



IV THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 79 

of Moore's church some time before you come to it, and 
in some respects the prospect is not unhke that of 
Shakespeare's church at Stratford. A sweeter spot for 
a poet's sepulchre it would be hard to find. No spot 
could be more harmonious than this one is with the 
gentle, romantic spirit of Moore's poetry, and with the 
purity, refinement, and serenity of his life. Bromham vil- 
lage consists of a few red brick buildings, scattered along 
a few irregular little lanes, on a ridge overlooking a 
valley. Amid those humble homes stands the gray 
church, like a shepherd keeping his flock. A part of it 
is very old, and all of it, richly weather-stained and deli- 
cately browned with fading moss, is beautiful. Upon 
the tower and along the south side the fantastic gar- 
goyles are much decayed. The building is a cross. 
The chancel window faces eastward, and the window at 
the end of the nave looks toward the west, — the latter 
being a memorial to Moore. At the southeast corner 
of the building is the lady chapel, belonging to the 
Bayntun family, in which are suspended various frag- 
ments of old armour, and in the centre of which, recum- 
bent on a great dark tomb, is a grim-visaged knight, 
clad from top to toe in his mail, beautifully sculptured 
in marble that looks like yellow ivory. Vandal visitors 
have disgracefully marred this superb work, by cutting 
and scratching their names upon it. Other tombs are 
adjacent, with inscriptions that implicate the names of 
Sir Edward Bayntun, 1679, and Lady Anne Wilmot, 
elder daughter and co-heiress of John, Earl of Roches- 
ter, who successively was the wife of Henry Bayntun 
and Francis Greville, and who died in 1703. The win- 
dow at the end of the nave is a simple but striking com- 



8o GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

position, in stained glass, richer and nobler than is 
commonly seen in a country church. It consists of 
twenty-one lights, of which five are lancet shafts, side 
by side, these being surmounted with smaller lancets, 
forming a cluster at the top of the arch. In the centre 
is the figure of Jesus and around Him are the Apostles. 
The colouring is soft, true, and beautiful. Across the 
base of the window appear the words, in the glass : 
**This window is placed in this church by the combined 
subscriptions of two hundred persons who honour the 
memory of the poet of all circles and the idol of his own, 
Thomas Moore." It was beneath this window, in a 
little pew in the corner of the church, that the present 
writer joined in the service, and meditated, throughout 
a long sermon, on the lovely life and character and the 
gentle, noble, and abiding influence of the poet whose 
hallowed grave and beloved memory make this place a 
perpetual shrine. 

Moore was buried in the churchyard. An iron fence 
encloses his tomb, which is at the base of the church 
tower, in an angle formed by the tower and the chancel, 
on the north side of the building. Not more than twenty 
tombs are visible on this side of the church, and these 
appear upon a level lawn, as green and sparkling as 
an emerald and as soft as velvet. On three sides the 
churchyard is enclosed by a low wall, and on the fourth 
by a dense hedge of glistening holly. Great trees are 
all around the church, but not too near. A massive 
yew stands darkly at one corner. Chestnuts and elms 
blend their branches in fraternal embrace. Close by 
the poet's grave a vast beech uprears its dome of 
fruited boughs and rustling foliage. The sky was 



IV THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 8 1 

blue, except for a few straggling masses of fleecy, 
slate-coloured cloud. Not a human creature was any- 
where to be seen while I stood in this sacred spot, and 
no sound disturbed the Sabbath stillness, save the faint 
whisper of the wind in the lofty tree-tops and the low 
twitter of birds in their hidden nests. I thought of his 
long life, unblemished by personal fault or public error ; 
of his sweet devotion to parents and wife and children ; 
of his pure patriotism, which scorned equally the bla- 
tant fustian of the demagogue and the frenzy of the 
revolutionist; of his unsurpassed fidelity in friendship; 
of his simpUcity and purity in a corrupt time and amid 
many temptations ; of his meekness in affliction ; of the 
devout spirit that prompted his earnest exhortation to 
his wife, " Lean upon God, Bessie " ; of the many beauti- 
ful songs that he added to our literature, — every one 
of which is the melodious and final expression of one 
or another of the elemental feelings of human nature ; 
and of the obligation of endless gratitude that the world 
owes to his fine, high, and beneficent genius. And thus 
it seemed good to be in this place and to lay with rev- 
erent hands the white roses of honour and affection 
upon his tomb. 

On the long, low, flat stone that covers the poet's 
dust are inscribed the following words : " Anastatia 
Mary Moore. Born March i6, 1813. Died March 8, 
1829. Also her brother, John Russell Moore, who died 
November 23, 1842, aged 19 years. Also their father, 
Thomas Moore, tenderly beloved by all who knew the 
goodness of his heart. The Poet and Patriot of his 
Country, Ireland. Born May 28, 1779. Sank to rest 
February 26, 1852. Aged 72. God is Love. Also 



82 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

his wife, Bessie Moore, who died 4th September 1865. 
And to the memory of their dear son, Thomas Lans- 
downe Parr Moore. Born 24th October 18 18. Died in 
Africa, January 1846." Moore's daughter, Barbara, is 
buried at Hornsey, near London, in the same church- 
yard where rests the poet Samuel Rogers. On the stone 
that marks that spot is written, "Anne Jane Barbara 
Moore. Born January the 4th, 1812. Died September 
the i8th, 1817." 

Northwest from Bromham church^ and about one mile 
away stands Sloperton Cottage,^ the last home of the 
poet and the house in which he died. A deep valley 
intervenes between the church and the cottage, but, as 
each is built upon a ridge, you may readily see the one 
from the other. There is a road across the valley, but 
the more pleasant walk is along a pathway through the 
meadows and over several stiles, ending almost in front 
of the storied house. It is an ideal honie for a poet. 
The building is made of brick, but it is so completely 
enwrapped in ivy that scarcely a particle of its surface 
can be seen. It is a low building, with three gables on 
its main front and with a wing ; it stands in the middle 
of a garden enclosed by walls and by hedges of ivy ; 
and it is embowered by great trees, yet not so closely 
embowered as to be shorn of the prospect from its 
windows. Flowers and flowering vines were blooming 

1 The curfew bell is rung at Bromham church, at eight o'clock *n the 
evening, on week days, from Michaelmas to Lady Day, and at the same 
hour on every Sunday throughout the year; and on Shrove Tuesd>^v the 
bell is rung at one o'clock in the day. 

2 Sloperton Cottage is now, 1896, the property of H. H. Ludlow Bur- 
gess, of Seend. 



IV THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 83 

around it. The hard, white road, flowing past its gate- 
way, looked like a thread of silver between the green 
hedgerows which here for many miles are rooted in 
high, grassy banks, and at intervals are diversified with 
large trees. Sloperton Cottage is almost alone, but 
there are a few neighbours, and there is the little 
rustic village of Westbrook, about half a mile west- 
ward. Westward was the poet's favourite prospect. 
He loved the sunset, and from a terrace in his garden 
he habitually watched the pageant of the dying day. 
Here, for thirty-five years, was his peaceful and happy 
home. Here he meditated many of those gems of 
lyrical poetry that will live in the hearts of men as 
long as anything lives that ever was written by mor- 
tal hand. And here he ''sank to rest," worn out at 
last by incessant labour and by many sorrows, — the 
bitter fruit of domestic bereavement and of disappoint- 
ment. The sun was sinking as I turned away from this 
hallowed haunt of genius and virtue, and, through green 
pastures and flower-spangled fields of waving grain, set 
forth upon my homeward walk. Soon there was a 
lovely peal of chimes from Bromham church tower, 
answered far off by the bells of Rowde, and while I 
descended into the darkening valley, Moore's tender 
words came singing through my thought : 

" And so 'twill be when I am gone — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on, 
While other bards shall walk these dells 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! " 




CHAPTER V 

THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH 

UGUST 21, 1888. — From Devizes the 
traveller naturally turns toward Bath, 
which is only a few miles distant. A 
beautiful city, marred somewhat by the 
feverish, disturbing spirit of the present 
day, this old place [so old that in it 
the Saxon King Edgar was crowned, a.d. 973] nev- 
ertheless retains many interesting characteristics of 
its former glory. More than a century has passed 
since the wigged, powdered, and jewelled days of Beau 
Nash. The Avon, — for there is another Avon here, 
distinct from that of Warwickshire and also from that 
of Yorkshire, — is spanned by bridges that Smollett 
never dreamt of and Sheridan never saw. The town 
has crept upward, along both the valley slopes, nearer 
and nearer to the hill-tops that used to look down upon 
it. Along the margins of the river many gray, stone 
structures are mouldering in neglect and decay ; but 
a tramcar rattles through the principal street ; the boot- 
black and the newsvender are active and vociferous; 
the causeways are crowded with a bustling throng, 

84 



se 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



and carts and carriages dash and scramble over the 
pavement, while, where of old the horn used to sound 
a gay flourish and the coach to come spinning in from 
London, now is heard the shriek and clangour of the 
steam-engine dashing down the vale, with morning 
papers and with passengers, three hours from the town. 
This, indeed, is not *' the season " and of late it has 
rained with zealous persistence, so that Bath is not in 
her splendour. Much however can be seen, and the 

essential fact that 
she is no longer 
the Gainsborough 
belle that she used 
to be is distinctly 
evident. You must 
yield your mind to 
fancy if you would 
conjure up, while 
walking in these 
modern streets, 
the gay and quaint 
things described in 
HiimpJirey Clinker 
or indicated in The Rivals. The Bath chairs, sometimes 
pulled by donkeys, and sometimes trundled by men, are 
among the most representative relics now to be seen. 
Next to the theatre [where it was my privilege to enjoy 
and admire Mr. John L. Toole's quaint and richly hu- 
morous performance of The Don\ stands a building, at 
the foot of Gascoigne place, before which the traveller 
pauses with interest, because upon its front he may 
read the legend, neatly engraved on a white marble 




Beau Nash. 



V THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH 8/ 

slab, that *' In this house lived the celebrated Beau 
Nash, and here he died, February 1761." It is an odd 
structure, consisting of two stories and an attic, the 
front being of the monotonous stucco that came in with 
the Regent. Earlier no doubt the building was timbered. 
There are eleven windows in the front, four of them being 
painted on the wall. The house is used now by an auc- 
tioneer. In the historic Pump Room, dating back to 
1797, raised aloft in an alcove at the east end, still 
stands the effigy of the Beau, even as it stood in the 
days when he set the fashions, regulated the customs, 
and gave the laws, and was the King of Bath ; but the 
busts of Newton and Pope that formerly stood on either 
side of this statue stand there no more, save in the 
fancy of those who recall the epigram which was sug- 
gested by that singular group : 

" This statue placed these busts between 
Gives satire ail its strength ; 
Wisdom and Wit are little seen, 
But Folly at full length." 

Folly, though, is a word that carries a different mean- 
ing to different ears. Douglas Jerrold made a play on 
the subject of Beau Nash, an ingenious, effective, brill- 
iantly written play, in which he is depicted as anything 
but foolish. Much always depends on the point of 
view. 

Quin [ 1 693-1 766] was buried in Bath Abbey, and 
Bath is the scene of TJie Rivals. It would be pleasant 
to fancy the trim figure of the elegant Sir Lucius 
O'Trigger strolling along the parade ; or bluff and chol- 
eric Sir Anthony Absolute gazing with imperious conde- 



CHAP. V THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH 89 

scension upon the galaxy of the Pump Room; Acres 
m his absurd finery; Lydia with her sentimental novels; 
and Mrs. Malaprop, rigid with decorum, in her Bath 
chair. The Abbey, begun in 1405 and completed in 
1606, has a noble west front and a magnificent door of 
carved oak, and certainly it is a superb church ; but the 
eyes that have rested upon such cathedrals as those 
of Lincoln, Durham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, such a 
heavenly jewel as Roslin, and such an astounding and 
overwhelming edifice as York minster, can dwell calmly 
on Bath Abbey. A surprising feature in it is its mural 
record of the dead that are entombed beneath or around 
it. Sir Lucius might well declare that ''There is snug 
lying in the Abbey." Almost every foot of the walls 
is covered with monumental slabs, and like Captain 
Cuttle, after the wedding of Mr. Dombey and Edith 
Granger, I "pervaded the body of the church" and read 
the epitaphs, — solicitous to discover that of the re- 
nowned actor James Quin. His tablet was formerly to 
be found in the chancel, but now it is obscurely placed 
in a porch, on the north corner of the building, on what 
may be termed the outer wall of the sanctuary. It pre- 
sents the face of the famous comedian, carved in white 
marble and set against a black slab. Beneath is the 
date of his death, " Ob. mdcclxvi. yEtat. lxxiil," and 
his epitaph, written by David Garrick. At the base 
are dramatic emblems, — the mask and the dagger. As a 
portrait this medallion of Quin gives convincing evidence 
of scrupulous fidelity to nature, and certainly it is a fine 
work of art. The head is dressed as it was in life, with 
the full wig of the period. The features are delicately 
cut and are indicative of austere beauty of countenance, 



90 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

impressive if not attractive. The mouth is especially 
handsome, the upper lip being a perfect Cupid's bow. 
The face is serious, expressive, and fraught with intel- 
lect and power. This was the last great declaimer of 
the old school of acting, discomfited and almost obliter- 
ated by Garrick ; and here are the words that Garrick 
wrote upon his tomb : 

" That tongue which set the table on a roar 
And charmed the pubHc ear is heard no more ; 
Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit, 
Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakespeare writ ; 
Cold is that hand which, living, was stretched forth. 
At friendship's call, to succour modest worth. 
Here Hes JAMES QUIN. Deign, reader, to be taught 
Whatever thy strength of body, force of thought, 
In nature's happiest mould however cast, 
To this complexion thou must come at last." 

A printed reminder of mortality is superfluous in Bath, 
for you almost continually behold afflicted and deformed 
persons who have come here to " take the waters." For 
rheumatic sufferers this place is a paradise, — as, indeed, 
it is for all wealthy persons who love luxury. Walter 
Savage Landor said that the only two cities of Europe 
in which he could live were Bath and Florence ; but that 
was long ago. When you have walked in Milsom street 
and Lansdowne Crescent, sailed upon the Avon, ob- 
served the Abbey, without and within, — for its dusky, 
weather-stained walls are extremely picturesque, — at- 
tended the theatre, climbed the hills for the view of the 
city and the Avon valley, and taken the baths, you will 
have had a satisfying experience of Bath. The greatest 
luxury in the place is a swimming-tank of mineral water, 



V THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH 9 1 

about forty feet long, by twenty broad, and five feet 
deep, — a tepid pool of most refreshing potency. And 
the chief curiosity is the ruin of a Roman bath which 
was discovered and laid bare in 1885. This is built in 
the form of a rectangular basin of stone, with steps 







High Street — Bath. 



around it, and originally it was environed with stone 
chambers that were used as dressing-rooms. The ba- 
sin is nearly perfect. The work of restoration of this 
ancient bath is in progress, but the relic will be pre- 
served only as an emblem of the past. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly, the song-writer, 1 797-1 839, 



92 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



was born in Bath, and there he melodiously recorded 
that ** She wore a wreath of roses," and there he 
dreamed of dwelling "in marble halls." But Bath 
is not nearly as rich in literary associations as its 
neighbour city of Bristol. Chatterton, Southey, Han- 
nah More, and Mary Robinson, — the actress, the 
lovely and unfortunate "Perdita," — were born in Bris- 
tol. Richard Savage, the poet, died there [1743], and 
so did John Hippesley, the comedian, manager, and 
farce-writer [1748]. St. Mary Redclyffe church, built 




A Fragment from an Old Roman Bath. 

in 1292, is still standing there, of which Chatterton's 
father was the sexton, and in the tower of which '* the 
marvellous boy" discovered, according to his ingenious 
plan of literary imposture, the original Canynge and 
Rowley manuscripts. The ancient chests, which once 
were filled with black-letter parchments, remain in a loft 
in the church tower, but they are empty now. That 
famous preacher, the Rev. Robert Hall [i 764-1 831], 
had a church in Bristol. Southey and Coleridge mar- 
ried sisters, of the name of Fricker, who resided there, 



V THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH 93 

and a house called Myrtle Cottage, once occupied by 
Coleridge is still extant, in the contiguous village of 
Clevedon, — one of the loveliest places on the English 
coast. Jane Porter and Anna Maria Porter lived in 
Bristol, and Maria died at Montpelier, near by. These 
references indicate but a tithe of what may be seen, 
studied, and enjoyed in and about Bristol, — the city to 
which Chatterton left his curse ; the region hallowed by 
the dust of Arthur Hallam, — inspiration of Tennyson's 
hi Meinoriajn, the loftiest poem that has been created in 
the English language since the pen that wrote CJiilde 
Harold fell from the magical hand of Byron. 




Rejtiains of The Old Roma?i Bath. 




CHAPTER VI 



THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 




GOOD way by which to enter the Lake 
District of England is to travel to Penrith 
and thence to drive along the shore of 
Ullswater, or sail upon its crystal bosom, 
to the blooming solitude of Patterdale. 
Penrith lies at the eastern slope of the mountains of 
Westmoreland, and you may see the ruins of Penrith 
Castle, once the property and the abode of Richard, 
Duke of Gloucester, before he became King of England. 
Penrith Castle was one of the estates that were forfeited 
by the great Earl of Warwick, and King Edward the 
Fourth gave it to his brother Richard, in 147 1. It is 
recorded that Richard had lived there for five years, 
from 1452 to 1457, when he was Sheriff of Cumberland. 
Not much remains of that ancient structure, and the 
remnant is now occupied by a florist. I saw it, as I 
saw almost everything else in Great Britain during the 
summer of 1888, under a tempest of rain; for it rained 
there, with a continuity almost ruinous, from the time 
of the lilac and apple-blossom till when the clematis 

94 




CHAPTER VI 



THF [.AND or WORDSWORTH 




(tOCJD w 



which to enter the Lake 



District of England is to travel to Penrith 

..;.';! imJ[T^^'MTl.#?\^ along the shore of 

' - ' Hs crystal bosom, 

\':i: of Patterdale. 

the mountains ot 

WcstniorckiuJ. au-i ^;>u .:ic ruins of Penrith 

Castle, once the proper!; se abode of Richard, 

Duke of Gloucester, before he became King of England. 

Penrith Castle was one of the estates that were forfeited 

bv tl-e great Plarl of Warwick, and King Edward the 

I'oLiit , ...ive it to his brother Richard, in 1471. It is 

recorded that Richard had lived there for five years. 

from 1452 to 1457, when he was Sheriff of Cumberland. 

Not much remains of that ancient structure, and the 

romnant is now occupied by a florist. I saw it, as I 

saw almost everything else in Great Britain during the 

^iTnmer of i883, under a tempest of rain; for it rained 

with a continuity almost ruinous, from the time 

^nd apple-biossom till when the clematis 

94 




^ 









96 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

began to show the splendour of its purple shield and the 
acacia to drop its milky blossoms on the autumnal grass. 
But travellers must not heed the weather. If there are 
dark days there are also bright ones, — and one bright 
day in such a paradise as the English Lakes atones for 
the dreariness of a month of rain. Besides, even the 
darkest days may be brightened by gentle companion- 
ship. Henry Irving^ and Ernest Bendall, two of the 
most intellectual and genial men in England, were my 
associates, in that expedition. We went from London 
into Westmoreland on a mild, sweet day in July, and 
we rambled for several days in that enchanted region. 
It was a delicious experience, and I often close my eyes 
and dream of it — as I am dreaming now. 

In the drive between Penrith and Patterdale you see 
many things that are worthy of regard. Among these 
are the parish church of Penrith, a building made of 
red stone, remarkable for a massive square tower of 
great age and formidable aspect. In the adjacent 
churchyard are The Giant's Grave and The Giant's 
Thumb, relics of a distant past that strongly and 
strangely affect the imagination. The grave is said to 
be that of Ewain Caesarius,^ a gigantic individual who 
reigned over Cumberland in remote Saxon times. The 
Thumb is a rough stone, about seven feet high, present- 
ing a clumsy cross, and doubtless commemorative of 
another mighty warrior. Sir Walter Scott, who trav- 

1 The famous actor was knighted, by Queen Victoria, in 1895, ^"^ 
became Sir Henry Irving. 

2 " In our stage to Penrith I introduced Anne to the ancient Petreia, 
called Old Penrith, and also to the grave of Sir Ewain Csesarius, that knight 
with the puzzling name, which has got more indistinct." — Journal of Sir 

Walter Scott, Vol. II., p. 151. 



VI THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 97 

ersed Penrith on his journeys between Edinburgh and 
London, seldom omitted to pause for a view of those 
singular memorials, and Scott, like Wordsworth, has 
left upon this region the abiding impress of his splendid 
genius. Ulfo's Lake is Scott's name for Ullswater, and 
thereabout is laid the scene of his poem of The Bridal 
of Triermai7i. In Scott's day the traveller went by 
coach or on horseback, but now, '' By lonely Threlkeld's 
waste and wood," at the foot of craggy Blencathara, 
you pause at a railway station having Threlkeld in 
large letters on its official signboard. Another strange 
thing that is passed on the road between Penrith and 
Patterdale is "Arthur's Round Table," — a circular ter- 
race of turf slightly raised above the surrounding level, 
and certainly remarkable, whatever may be its historic 
or antiquarian merit, for fine texture, symmetrical form, 
and lovely, luxuriant colour. Scholars think it was 
used for tournaments in the days of chivalry, but no 
one rightly knows anything about it, save that it is old. 
Not far from this bit of mysterious antiquity the road 
winds through a quaint village called Tirril, where, in 
the Quaker burial-ground, is the grave of an unfortu- 
nate young man, Charles Gough, who lost his life by 
falling from the Striding Edge of Helvellyn in 1805, 
and whose memory is hallowed by Wordsworth and 
Scott, in poems that almost every schoolboy has read, 
and could never forget, — associated as they are with 
the story of the faithful dog, for three months in that 
lonesome wilderness vigilant beside the dead body of 
his master, 

"A lofty precipice in front, 
A silent tarn below." 



98 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

Patterdale possesses this advantage over certain other 
towns and hamlets of the lake region, that it is not 
much frequented by tourists. The coach does indeed 
roll through it at intervals, laden with those miscellane- 
ous, desultory visitors whose pleasure it is to rush wildly 
over the land. And those objects serve to remind you 
that now, even as in Wordsworth's time, and in a double 
sense, '' the world is too much with us." But an old- 
fashioned inn, Kidd's Hotel, still exists, at the head of 
Ullswater, to which fashion has not resorted and where 
kindness presides over the traveller's comfort. Close 
by also is a cosy nook called Glenridding, where, if you 
are a lover of solitude and peace, you may find an ideal 
abode. One house wherein lodging may be obtained 
was literally embowered in roses on that summer even- 
ing when first I strolled by the fragrant hay-fields on 
the Patterdale shore of Ullswater. The rose flourishes 
in wonderful luxuriance and profusion throughout West- 
moreland and Cumberland. As you drive along the 
lonely roads your way will sometimes be, for many 
miles, between hedges that are bespangled with wild 
roses and with the silver globes of the laurel blossom, 
while around you the lonely mountains, bare of foliage 
save for matted grass and a dense growth of low ferns, 
tower to meet the clouds. It is a wild place, and yet 
there is a pervading spirit of refinement over it all, — 
as if Nature had here wrought her wonders in the mood 
of the finest art. And at the same time it is a place 
of infinite variety. The whole territory occupied by 
the lakes and mountains of this famous district is 
scarcely more than thirty miles square ; yet within this 
limit, comparatively narrow, are comprised all possible 



VI THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 99 

beauties of land and water that the most passionate 
worshipper of natural loveliness could desire. 

My first night in Patterdale was one of such tempest 
as sometimes rages in America about the time of the 
fall equinox. The wind shook the building. It was 
long after midnight when I went to rest, and the storm 
seemed to increase in fury as the night wore on. Tor- 
rents of rain were dashed against the windows. Great 
trees near by creaked and groaned beneath the strength 
of the gale. The cold was so severe that blankets 
were welcome. It was my first night in Wordsworth's 
country, and I thought of Wordsworth's lines : 

" There was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods." 

The next morning was sweet with sunshine and gay 
with birds and flowers, and all semblance of storm and 
trouble seemed banished forever. 

'• But now the sun is shining calm and bright, 
And birds are singing in the distant woods." 

Wordsworth's poetry expresses the inmost soul of 
those lovely lakes and mighty hills, and no writer can 
hope to tread, save remotely and with reverent humility, 
in the footsteps of that magician. You understand 
Wordsworth better, however, and you love him more 
dearly, for having rambled over his consecrated ground. 
There was not a day when I did not, in some shape 
or another, meet with his presence. Whenever I was 
alone his influence came upon me as something unspeak- 
ably majestic and solemn. Once, on a Sunday, I climbed 



lOO GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

to the top of Place FelP [which is 2154 feet above the 
sea-level, while Scawfell Pike is 3210, and Helvellyn is 
3 1 18], and there, in the short space of two hours, I was 
thrice cut off by rainstorms from all view of the world 
beneath. Not a tree could I find on that mountain-top, 
nor any place of shelter from the blast and the rain, 
except when crouching beside the mound of rock at its 
summit, which in that country they call a *' man." Not 
a living creature was visible, save now and then a lonely 
sheep, who stared at me for a moment and then scurried 
away. But when the skies cleared and the cloudy 
squadrons of the storm went careering over Helvellyn, 
I looked down into no less than fifteen valleys beauti- 
fully coloured by the foliage and the patches of cultivated 
land, each vale being sparsely fringed with little gray 
stone dwellings that seemed no more than card-houses, 
in those appalling depths. You think of Wordsworth, 
in such a place as that, — if you know his poetry. You 
cannot choose but think of him. 

" Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 
How beautiful the world below." 

Yet somehow it happened that whenever friends 
joined in those rambles the great poet was sure to dawn 
upon us in a comic way. When we were resting on the 
bridge at the foot of Brothers Water, which is a little 
lake, scarcely more than a mountain tarn, lying between 
Ullswater and the Kirkstone Pass, some one recalled that 

1 The poet Gray, who visited these mountains in 1769, wrote, in his 
Journal, October i : " Place Fell, one of the bravest among them, pushes 
its bold broad breast into the midst of the lake, and forces it to alter its 
course, forming first a large bay to the left and then bending to the right." 



THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 



lOI 



Wordsworth had once rested there and written a poem 
about it. We were not all as devout admirers of the 
bard as I am, and certainly it is not every one of the 
great author's compositions that a lover of his genius 
would wish to hear quoted, under such circumstances. 
The Brothers Water poem is the one that begins " The 
cock is crowing, the stream is flowing," and I do not 
think that its insipidity is much relieved by its famous 
picture of the grazing cattle, "forty feeding like one." 




X 

Lyulph's Totmr — Ullszoater. 

Henry Irving, not much given to enthusiasm about 
Wordsworth, heard those lines with undisguised merri- 
ment, and made a capital travesty of them on the spot. 
It is significant to remember, with reference to the in- 
equality of Wordsworth, that on the day before he wrote 
''The cock is crowing," and at a place but a short dis- 
tance from the Brothers Water bridge, he had written 



I02 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

that peerless lyric about the daffodils, — "I wandered 
lonely as a cloud." Gowbarrow Park is the scene of 
that poem, — a place of ferns and hawthorns, notable for 
containing Lyulph's Tower, a romantic, ivy-clad lodge 
owned by the Duke of Norfolk, and Aira Force, a 
waterfall much finer than Lodore. Upon the lake shore 
in Gowbarrow Park you may still see the daffodils as 
Wordsworth saw them, a golden host, ''glittering and 
dancing in the breeze." No one but a true poet could 
have made that perfect lyric, with its delicious close : 

" For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude : 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils.'" 

The third and fourth lines were written by the poet's 
wife, and they show that she was not a poet's wife in 
vain. It must have been in his " vacant mood " 
that he rested and wrote, on the bridge at Brothers 
Water. *' I saw Wordsworth often when I was a child," 
said Frank Marshall^ [who had joined us at Penrith] ; 
'* he used to come to my father's house, Patterdale Hall, 
and once I was sent to the garden by Mrs. Wordsworth 
to call him to supper. He was musing there, I suppose. 
He had a long, horse-like face. I don't think I liked 
him. I said, 'Your wife wants you.' He looked down 

1 F. A. Marshall, editor of The Henry Irving Edition of Shakespeare 
and author of A Study of Hamlet^ the comedy of False Shatne, and many 
other works, died in London, December, 1889, much lamented. His 
widow, — the once distinguished actress, Miss Ada Cavendish, — died, at 
34 Thurloe square, London, October 6, 1895. 



THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 



103 



at me and he answered, ' My boy, you should say Mrs. 
Wordsworth, and not "your wife."' I looked up at 
him and I replied, ' She t's your wife, isn't she .'' ' 
Whereupon he said no more. I don't think he liked 
me either." We were going up Kirkstone Pass when 
Marshall told this story, — which seemed to bring the 
pensive and homely poet plainly before us. An hour 
later, at the top of the pass, while waiting in the old inn 
called the Traveller's Rest, which incorrectly proclaims 
itself the highest inhabited house in England,^ I spoke 
with an ancient, weather-beaten 
hostler, not wholly unfamiliar with 
the medicinal virtue of ardent 
spirits, and asked for his opinion 
of the great lake poet. ''Well," 
he said, *' people are always talk- 
ing about Wordsworth, but I don't 
see much in it. I've read it, but 
I don't care for it. It's dry stuff 
— it don't chime." Truly there 
are all sorts of views, just as there 
are all sorts of people. 

Mementos of Wordsworth are 
frequently encountered by the 
traveller among these lakes and fells. One of them, 
situated at the foot of Place Fell, is a rustic cot- 
tage that the poet once selected for his residence : it 
was purchased for him by Lord Lonsdale, as a partial 




ui; 



William \ \ 'or dsworth. 



^ The Traveller's Rest is 148 1 feet above the sea-level, whereas the inn 
called The Cat and Fiddle, — a corruption of Caton le Fidele, governor of 
Calais, — on Axe Edge, near Buxton, is 1 700 feet above the level of 
the sea. 



104 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



indemnity for losses caused by an ancestor of his to 
Wordsworth's father. The poet Hked the place, but he 




Approach to Ambleside. 



never lived there. The house somewhat resembles the 
Shakespeare cottage at Stratford, -the living-room 



VI THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 105 

being floored with stone slabs, irregular in size and 
shape and mostly broken by hard use. In a corner of 
the kitchen stands a fine carved oak cupboard, dark 
with age, inscribed with the date of the Merry Mon- 
arch, 1660. 

What were the sights of those sweet days that linger 
still, and will always linger, in my remembrance ? A 
ramble in the park of Patterdale Hall [the old name 
of the estate is Halsteads], which is full of American 
trees ; a golden morning in Dovedale, Avith Irving, much 
like Jaques, reclined upon a shaded rock, half-way up 
the mountain, musing and moralising in his sweet, kind 
way, beside the brawling stream ; the first prospect 
of Windermere, from above Ambleside, — a vision of 
heaven upon earth ; the drive by Rydal Water, which 
has all the loveliness of celestial pictures seen in 
dreams ; the glimpse of stately Rydal Hall and of the 
sequestered Rydal Mount, where Wordsworth so long 
lived and where he died ; the Wishing Gate, where one 
of us, I know, wished in his heart that he could be 
young again and be wiser than to waste his youth in 
self-willed folly ; the restful hours of observation and 
thought at delicious Grasmere, where we stood in silence 
at Wordsworth's grave and heard the murmur of Rotha 
singing at his feet ; the lovely drive past Matterdale, 
across the moorlands, with only clouds and rooks for 
our chance companions, and mountains for sentinels 
along our way ; the ramble through Keswick, all golden 
and glowing in the afternoon sun, till we stood by 
Crosthwaite church and read the words of commem- 
oration that grace the tomb of Robert Southey ; the 
divine circuit of Derwent, — surely the loveliest sheet of 



CHAP. VI. THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 10/ 

water in England ; the descent into the vale of Keswick, 
with sunset on the rippling crystal of the lake and the 
perfume of countless wild roses on the evening wind. 
These things, and the midnight talk about these things, 
— Irving, so tranquil, so gentle, so full of keen and 
sweet appreciation of them, — Bendall, so bright and 
thoughtful, — Marshall, so quaint and jolly, and so full 
of knowledge equally of nature and of books ! — can 
never be forgotten. In one heart they are cherished 
forever. 

Wordsworth is buried in Grasmere churchyard, close 
by the wall, on the bank of the little river Rotha. 
" Sing him thy best," said Matthew Arnold, in his 
lovely dirge for the great poet — 

" Sing him thy best! for few or none 
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone." 

In the same grave with Wordsworth sleeps his de- 
voted wife. Beside them rest the poet's no less devoted 
sister Dorothy, who died at Rydal Mount in 1855, aged 
83, and his daughter, Dora, together with her husband 
Edward Quillinan, of whom Arnold wrote so tenderly : 

^'AHve, we would have changed his lot, 
We would not change it now." 

On the low gravestone that marks the sepulchre 
of V/ordsworth are written these words : " William 
Wordsworth, 1850. Mary Wordsworth, 1859." ^^ 
the neighbouring church a mural tablet presents this 
inscription : 

"To the memory of William Wordsworth. A true poet and 
philosopher, who by the special gift and calling of Almighty God, 
whether he discoursed on man or nature, failed not to lift up the 



io8 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



heart to holy things, tired not of maintaining the cause of the poor 
and simple, and so in perilous times was raised up to be a chief 
minister, not only of noblest poetry, but of high and sacred truth. 
The memorial is raised here by his friends and neighbours, in testi- 
mony of respect, affection, and gratitude. Anno mdcccli.'' 

A few steps from that memorable group will bring 
you to the marble cross that marks the resting-place of 




Rydal Mount — Wordsioorth's Seat. 



Hartley Coleridge, son of the great author of TJie An- 
cient Mariner, himself a poet of exquisite genius ; and 
close by is a touching memorial to the gifted man who 
inspired Matthew Arnold's poems of The ScJiolar-Gipsy 
and Thyrsis. This is a slab laid upon his mother's 
grave, at the foot of her tombstone, inscribed with 
these words : 



VI THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH IO9 

" In memory of Arthur Hugh Clough, some time Fellow of Oriel 
College, Oxford, the beloved son of James Butler and Anne Clough. 
This remembrance in his own country is placed on his mother^s 
grave by those to whom life was made happy by his presence and 
his love. He is buried in the Swiss cemetery at Florence, where 
he died, November 13, 1861, aged 42. 

" ' So, dearest, now thy brows are cold 
I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 
Thy kindred with the great of old.'" 

Southey rests in Crosthwaite churchyard, about half 
a mile north of Keswick, where he died. They show 
you Greta Hall, a fine mansion, on a little hill, enclosed 
in tall trees, which for forty years, ending in 1843, was 
the poet's home. In the church is a marble figure of 
Southey, recumbent on a large stone sarcophagus. His 
grave is in the ground, a little way from the church, 
marked by a low flat tomb, on the end of which appears 
an inscription commemorative of a servant who had 
lived fifty years in his family and is buried near him. 
There was a pretty scene at this grave. When I came 
to it Irving was already there, and was speaking to a 
little girl who had guided him to the spot. " If any 
one were to give you a shilling, my dear," he said, 
*'what would you do with it.''" The child was con- 
fused and she murmured softly, " I don't know, sir." 
*'Well," he continued, '' if any one were to give you two 
shillings, what would you do .'^ " She said she would 
save it. " But what if it were three shillings .? " he 
asked, and each time he spoke he dropped a silver coin 
into her hand, till he must have given her more than a 
dozen of them. '' Four — five — six — seven — what 



no GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

would you do with the money?" "I would give it to 
my mother, sir," she answered at last, her little face all 
smiles, gazing up at the stately, sombre stranger, whose 
noble countenance never looked more radiant than it 
did then, with gentle kindness and pleasure. It is a 
trifle to mention, but it was touching in its simplicity ; 
and that amused group, around the grave of Southey, 
in the blaze of the golden sun of a July afternoon, with 
Skiddaw looming vast and majestic over all, will linger 
with me as long as anything lovely and of good report 
is treasured in my memory. Long after we had left 
the place I chanced to speak of its peculiar interest. 
" The most interesting thing I saw there," said Irving, 
"was that sweet child." I do not think the great actor 
was ever much impressed with the beauties of the lake 
poets. 

Another picture glimmers across my dream, — a pict- 
ure of peace and happiness which may close this ram- 
bling reminiscence of gentle days. We had driven up 
the pass between Glencoin and Gowbarrow, and had 
reached Matterdale, on our way toward Troutbeck sta- 
tion, — not the beautiful Windermere Troutbeck, but the 
less famous one. The road is lonely, but at Matterdale 
the traveller sees a few houses, and there our gaze was 
attracted by a gray church nestled in a hollow of the 
hillside. It stands sequestered in its place of graves, 
with bright greensward around it and a few trees. A 
faint sound of organ music floated from this sacred 
building and seemed to deepen the hush of the summer 
wind and shed a holier calm upon the lovely solitude. 
We dismounted and silently entered the church. A youth 
and a maiden, apparently lovers, were sitting at the or- 



THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 



II I 



gan, — the youth playing and the girl listening, and look- 
ing with tender trust and innocent affection into his face. 
He recognised our presence with a kindly nod, but went 
on with the music. I do not think she saw us at all. The 
place was full of soft, warm light streaming through the 
stained glass of Gothic windows and fragrant with per- 
fume floating from the hay-fields and the dew-drenched 
roses of many a neighbouring hedge. Not a word was 
spoken, and after a few moments we departed, as silently 
as we had come. Those lovers will never know what eyes 
looked upon them that day, what hearts were comforted 
with the sight of their happiness, or how a careworn man, 
three thousand miles away, fanning upon his hearthstone 
the dying embers of hope, now thinks of them with ten- 
der sympathy, and murmurs a blessing on the gracious 
scene which their presence so much endeared. 




An Old Lich Gate. 




CHAPTER VII 



SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER 




ORCESTER, July 23, 1889. — The pres- 
ent wanderer came lately to The 
Faithful City, and these words are 
written in a midnight hour at the 
Unicorn Hotel. This place is redolent 
of the wars of the Stuarts, and the 
moment you enter it your mind is filled with the 
presence of Charles the Martyr, Charles the Merry, 
Prince Rupert, and Oliver Cromwell. From the top of 
Red Hill and the margin of Perry wood, — now sleep- 
ing in the starlight or momentarily vocal with the rustle 
of leaves and the note of half-awakened birds, — Crom- 
well looked down over the ancient walled city which he 
had beleaguered. Upon the summit of the great tower 
of Worcester Cathedral Charles and Rupert held their 
last council of war. Here was lost, September 3, 165 1, 
the battle that made the Merry Monarch a hunted fugi- 
tive and an exile. With a stranger's interest I have ram- 
bled on those heights ; traversed the battlefield ; walked 
in every part of the cathedral; attended divine service 



114 GRAY Dx\YS AND GOLD chap. 

there ; revelled in the antiquities of the Edgar Tower ; 
roamed through most of the city streets ; traced all 
that can be traced of the old wall [there is little re- 
maining of it now, and no part that can be walked 
upon] ; explored the royal porcelain works, for which 
Worcester is rightly famous ; viewed several of its old 
churches and its one theatre, in Angel street ; entered 
its Guildhall, where they preserve a fine piece of artil- 
lery and nine suits of black armour that were left by 
Charles the Second when he fled from Worcester ; paced 
the dusty and empty Trinity Hall, now abandoned and 
condemned to demolition, where once Queen Elizabeth 
was feasted; and visited the old Commandery, — a rare 
piece of antiquity, remaining from the tenth century, 
— wherein the Duke of Hamilton died, of his wounds, 
after Cromwell's "crowning mercy," and beneath the 
floor of which he was laid in a temporary grave. The 
Commandery is now owned and occupied by a printer 
of directories and guide-books, the genial and hospitable 
Mr. Littlebury, and there, as everywhere else in storied 
Worcester, the arts of peace prevail over all the scenes 
and all the traces of 

" Old, unhappy, far-off things 
And battles long ago." 

In the Edgar Tower at Worcester they keep the 
original of the marriage-bond that was given by Fulk 
Sandells and John Richardson, of Shottery, as a pre- 
liminary to the marriage of William Shakespeare 
and Anne Hathaway. It is a long, narrow strip of 
parchment, and it has been glazed and framed. Two 
geals of light-coloured wax were originally attached to 



VII SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER 115 

it, dependent by strings, but these have been removed, 
— apparently for the convenience of the mechanic who 
put the relic into its present frame. The handwriting 
is crabbed and obscure. There are but few persons 
who can read the handwriting in old documents of this 
kind, and thousands of such documents exist in the 
church-archives, and elsewhere, in England, that have 
never been examined. The bond is for ^40, and is 
a guarantee that there was no impediment to the mar- 
riage of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway. It 
is dated November 28, 1582; its text authorises the 
weddir^ after only once calling the banns in church; 
and it is supposed that the marriage took place imme- 
diately, since the first child of it, Susanna Shakespeare, 
was baptized in the Church of the Holy Trinity at 
Stratford on May 26, 1583. No registration of the mar- 
riage has been found, but that is no proof that it does 
not exist. The law is said to have prescribed that three 
parishes, within the residential diocese, should be desig- 
nated, in any one of which the marriage might be made ; 
but custom permitted the contracting parties, when they 
had complied with this requirement, to be married in 
whatever parish, within the diocese, they might prefer. 
The three parishes supposed to have been named are 
Stratford, Bishopton, and Luddington. The registers 
of two of them have been searched, and searched in 
vain. The register of the third, — that of Luddington, 
which is near Shottery, and about three miles southwest 
of Stratford, — was destroyed, long ago, in a fire that 
burnt down Luddington church; and conjecture as- 
sumes that Shakespeare was married at Luddington. 
It may be so, but until every old church register in the 



Il6 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

ancient diocese of Worcester has been examined, the 
quest of the registration of his marriage ought not to 
be abandoned. Richard Savage, the learned and dili- 
gent librarian of the Shakespeare Birthplace, has long 
been occupied with this inquiry, and has transcribed 
several of the old church registers in the vicinity of 
Stratford. The Rev. Thomas Procter Wadley,^ another 
local antiquary, of great learning and incessant indus- 
try, has also taken part in this labour. The long-desired 
entry of the marriage of William and Anne remains un- 
discovered, but one gratifying and valuable result of 
these investigations is the disclosure that many of the 
names used in Shakespeare's works are the names of 
persons who were residents of Warwickshire in his 
time. It has pleased various crazy sensation-mongers 
to ascribe the authorship of Shakespeare's writings to 
Francis Bacon. This could only be done by ignoring 
positive evidence, — the evidence, namely, of Ben Jon- 
son, who knew Shakespeare personally, and who has left 
a written description of the manner in which Shake- 
speare composed his plays. Effrontery was to be ex- 
pected from the advocates of the preposterous Bacon 
theory ; but when they have ignored the positive evi- 
dence, and the internal evidence, and the circumstantial 
evidence, and every other sort of evidence, they have 
still a serious obstacle to surmount, — an obstacle that 
the researches of such patient scholars as Mr. Savage 
and Mr. Wadley are strengthening day by day. The 
man who wrote Shakespeare's plays knew Warwickshire 
as it could only be known to a native of it ; and there is 

1 Mr. Wadley died at Pershore, April 4, 1895, ^^'-^ ^'''^^ buried in Bid- 
ford churchyard on April 10. 



SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER 



ii; 



no proof that Francis Bacon knew it or ever was 
in iO 

With reference to the Shakespeare marriage-bond, 
and the other records that are kept in the Edgar Tower 
at Worcester, it may perhaps justly be said that they are 
not protected with the scrupulous care to which such 
treasures are entitled. The Tower, — a gray and ven- 
erable relic, an ancient gate of the monastery, dating 




T/ie Edgar Toiver. 

back to the time of King John, — affords an appropriate 
receptacle for those documents ; but it would not with- 
stand fire, and it does not contain either a fire-proof 
chamber or a safe. The Shakespeare marriage-bond, — 
which would be appropriately housed in the Shakespeare 



1 See in the London Athenceum, February 9, 1889, a valuable article, 
by Mr. John Taylor, on " Local Shakesperean Names " based upon, and in- 
corporative of, some of the researches of Mr. Wadley. 



Il8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

Birthplace, at Stratford, — was taken from the floor of 
a closet, where it had been lying, together with a num- 
ber of dusty books, and I was kindly permitted to hold 
it in my hands and to examine it. The frame provided 
for this priceless relic is such as may be seen on an 
ordinary school slate. From another dusty closet an 
attendant extricated a manuscript diary kept by William 
Lloyd, Bishop of Worcester [1627-17 17], and by his 
man-servant, for several years, about the beginning of 
the reign of Queen Anne ; and in this are many quaint 
and humorous entries, valuable to the student of his- 
tory and manners. In still another closet, having the 
appearance of a rubbish-bin, I saw heaps of old parch- 
ment and paper writings, — a mass of antique registry 
that it would need the labour of five or six years to 
examine, decipher, and classify. Worcester is especially 
rich in old records, and it is not impossible that the 
missing clew to Shakespeare's marriage may yet be 
found in that old cathedral city. 

Worcester is rich also in a superb library, which, by 
the kindness of Mr. Hooper, the custodian, I was allowed 
to explore, high up beneath the roof of the lovely cathe- 
dral. That collection of books, numbering about five 
thousand, consists mostly of folios, many of which were 
printed in France. They keep it in a long, low, oak- 
timbered room, the triforium of the south aisle of the 
nave. The approach is by a circular stone staircase. 
In an anteroom to the library I saw a part of the an- 
cient north door of this church, — a fragment dating 
back to the time of Bishop Wakefield, 1386, — to which 
is still affixed a piece of the skin of a human being. 
The tradition is that a Dane committed sacrilege, by 



VII SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER 119 

Stealing the sanctus bell from the high altar, and was 
thereupon flayed alive for his crime, and the skin of 
him was fastened to the cathedral door. In the library 
are magnificent editions of Aristotle and other classics ; 
the works of the fathers of the church ; a beautiful 
illuminated manuscript of Wickliffe's New Testament, 
written on vellum in 1381 ; and several books, in splen- 
did preservation, from the press of Caxton and that of 
Wynken de Worde. The world moves, but printing is 
not better done now than it was then. This library, 
which is for the use of the clergy of the diocese of 
Worcester, was founded by Bishop Carpenter, in 1461, 
and originally it was stored in the chapel of the charnel- 
house. 

Reverting to the subject of old documents, a useful 
word may perhaps be said here about the registers in 
Trinity church at Stratford, — documents which, in a 
spirit of disparagement, have sometimes been designated 
as '' copies." That sort of levity in the discussion of 
Shakespearean subjects is not unnatural in days when 
" cranks " are allowed freely to besmirch the memory 
of Shakespeare, in their wildly foolish advocacy of what 
they call "the Bacon theory" of the authorship of 
Shakespeare's works. The present writer has often 
held the Stratford Registers in his hands and explored 
their quaint pages. Those records are contained in 
twenty-two volumes. They begin with the first year of 
Queen Elizabeth, 1558, and they end, as to the old 
parchment form, in 18 12. From 1558 to 1600 the 
entries were made in a paper book, of the quarto form, 
still occasionally to be found in ancient parish churches 
of England. In 1599 an order-in-council was made, 



I20 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

commanding that those entries should be copied into 
parchment vokimes, for their better preservation. This 
was done. The parchment volumes, — which were 
freely shown to me by William Butcher,^ the parish 
clerk of Stratford, — date back to 1600. The handwrit- 
ing of the copied portion, covering the period from 1558 
to 1600, is careful and uniform. Each page is certified, 
as to its accuracy, by the vicar and the churchwardens. 
After 1600 the handwritings vary. In the register of 
marriage a new handwriting appears on September 17 
that year, and in the registers of Baptism and Burial 
it appears on September 20. The sequence of mar- 
riages is complete until 1756; that of baptisms and 
burials until 1812; when, in each case, a book of 
printed forms comes into use, and the expeditious 
march of the new age begins. The entry of Shake- 
speare's baptism, April 26, 1564, from which it is in- 
ferred that he was born on April 23, is extant as a 
certified copy from the earlier paper book. The entry 
of Shakespeare's burial is the original entry, made in 
the original register. 

Some time ago an American writer suggested that 
Shakespeare's widow, — seven years his senior at the 
start, and therefore fifty-nine years old when he died, 
— subsequently contracted another marriage. Mrs. 
Shakespeare survived her husband seven years, dying 
on August 6, 1623, at the age of sixty-seven. The 
entry in the Stratford register of burial contains, against 
the date of August 8, 1623, the names of *' Mrs. Shake- 
speare " and "Anna uxor Richard James." Those two 

1 William Butcher died on February 20, 1S95, aged sixty-six, and was 
buried in the Stratford Cemetery. 



VII SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER 12 1 

names, written one above the other, are connected by 
a bracket on the left side ; and this is supposed to be 
evidence that Shakespeare's widow married again. The 
use of the bracket could not possibly mislead anybody 
possessing the faculty of clear vision. When two or 
more persons were either baptized or buried on the 
same day, the parish clerk, in making the requisite 
entry in the register, connected their names with a 
bracket. Three instances of this practice occur upon 
a single page of the register, in the same handwriting, 
close to the page that records the burial, on the same 
day, of Mrs. Shakespeare, widow, and Anna the wife 
of Richard James. But folly needs only a slender hook 
on which to hang itself. 

John Baskerville, the famous printer [i 706-1 775], 
was born in Worcester, and his remains, the burial-place 
of which was long unknown, have lately been discov- 
ered there. Incledon, the famous singer, died there. 
Prince Arthur [i 486-1 502], eldest son of King Henry 
the Seventh, was buried in Worcester Cathedral, where 
a beautiful chantry was built over his remains in 1504. 
Bishop John Gauden [1605-1662], who wrote \.]\q Eikou 
Basilike, long generally attributed to Charles the First, 
rests there. The Duke of Hamilton, who died of his 
wounds, after Worcester fight, was transferred to that 
place, from his temporary grave in the Commandery. 
And in the centre of the sacrarium stands the tomb of 
that tyrant King John, who died on October 19, 12 16, 
at Newark, and whose remains, when the tomb was 
opened,! July 17, 1797, presented a ghastly spectacle. 

1 See An Account of the Discovery of the Body of King John, in the 
Cathedral Church of Worcester. By Valentine Green, F.S.A., 1797. 




CHAPTER VIII 



BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 




ANUARY 22, 1888. —On a night in 1785, 
when Mrs. Siddons was acting at Edin- 
burgh, the play being TJie Fatal Marriage 
and the character Isabella, a young lady 
of Aberdeenshire, Miss Catherine Gordon, 
of Gight, was among the audience. There 
is a point in that tragedy at which Isabella recognises her 
first husband, whom she had supposed to be dead, and in 
whose absence she had been married to another, and her 
consternation, grief, and rapture are sudden and excessive. 
Mrs. Siddons, at that point, always made a great effect. 
The words are, *' O my Biron, my Biron ! " On this 
night, at the moment when the wonderful actress sent 
forth her wailing, heart-piercing cry, as she uttered 
those words. Miss Gordon gave a frantic scream, fell 
into violent hysterics, and was borne out of the theatre, 
repeating " O my Biron, my Biron ! " At the time of 
that incident she had not met the man by whom she 
was afterward wedded, — the Hon. John Byron, whose 
wife she became, about a year later. Their first-born 



122 



CHAP. VIII BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 123 



and only child was George Gordon, afterward Lord 
Byron, the poet ; and among the many aspects of his 
life which impress the thoughtful reader of its strange 
and melancholy story none is more striking than the 
dramatic aspect of it, — so strangely prefigured in this 
event. 

Censure of Byron, whether as a man or as a writer, 
may be considered to have spent its force. It is a 
hundred years 
since he was born, 
and almost as 
many since he 
died.^ Everybody 
who wished to say 
a word against 
him has had am- 
p 1 e opportunity 
for saying it, and 
there is evidence 
that this opportu- 
nity has not been 
neglected. The 
record was long 
ago made up. 
Everybody knows 
that Byron's con- 
duct was some- 
times deformed with frenzy and stained with vice. Every- 
body knows that Byron's writings are occasionally marred 
with profanity and licentiousness, and that they contain 




^O^^W//^' 



Lord Byron. 



1 Byron was born on January 22, 1788, and he died on April 19, 1824. 



124 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

a quantity of crude verse. If he had never been married, 
or if, being married, his domestic life had not ended in 
disaster and scandal, his personal reputation would stand 
higher than it does at present, in the esteem of virtuous 
society. If about one-third of what he wrote had never 
been published, his reputation as a man of letters would 
stand higher than it now does in the esteem of stern 
judges of literary art. After an exhaustive discussion 
of the subject in every aspect of it, after every variety of 
hostile assault, and after praise sounded in every key of 
enthusiasm and in every language of the world, these 
truths remain. It is a pity that Byron was not a virtu- 
ous man and a good husband. It is a pity that he was 
not invariably a scrupulous literary artist, that he wrote 
so much, and that almost everything he wrote was pub- 
lished. But, when all this has been said, it remains a 
solid and immovable truth that Byron was a great poet 
and that he continues to be a great power in the litera- 
ture and life of the world. Nobody who pretends to 
read anything omits to read CJiilde Harold. 

To touch this complex and delicate subject in only a 
superficial manner it may not be amiss to say that the 
world is under obligation to Byron, if for nothing else, 
for the spectacle of a romantic, impressive, and instruc- 
tive life. His agency in that spectacle no doubt was 
involuntary, but all the same he presented it. He was 
a great poet ; a man of genius ; his faculty of expres- 
sion was colossal, and his conduct was absolutely 
genuine. No man in literature ever lived who lived 
himself more fully. His assumptions of disguise only 
made him more obvious and transparent. He kept 
nothing back. His heart was laid absolutely bare. We 



VIII BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 125 

know even more about him than we know about Dr. 
Johnson, — and still his personality endures the test of 
our knowledge and remains unique, romantic, fascinat- 
ing, prolific of moral admonition, and infinitely pathetic. 
Byron in poetry, like Edmund Kean in acting, is a figure 
that completely fills the imagination, profoundly stirs 
the heart, and never ceases to impress and charm, even 
while it afflicts, the sensitive mind. This consideration 
alone, viewed apart from the obligation that the world 
owes to the better part of his vv^ritings, is vastly signifi- 
cant of the great personal force that is inherent in the 
name and memory of Byron. 

It has been considered necessary to account for the 
sadness and gloom of Byron's poetry by representing 
him to have been a criminal afflicted with remorse for 
his many and hideous crimes. His widow, apparently a 
monomaniac, after long brooding over the remembrance 
of a calamitous married life, — brief, unhappy, and 
terminated in separation, — whispered against him, 
and against his half-sister, a vile and hideous charge ; 
and this, to the disgrace of American literature, was 
subsequently brought forward by a distinguished female 
writer of America, much noted for her works of fiction 
and especially memorable for that one. The explanation 
of the mental distress exhibited in the poet's writings 
was thought to be effectually provided in that disclosure. 
But, as this revolting and inhuman story, — desecrating 
graves, insulting a wonderful genius, and casting infamy 
upon the name of an affectionate, faithful, virtuous 
woman, — fell to pieces the moment it was examined, 
the student of Byron's grief-stricken nature remained 
no wiser than before this figment of a diseased imag- 



126 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

ination had been divulged. Surely, however, it ought 
not to be considered mysterious that Byron's poetry is 
often sad. The best poetry of the best poets is touched 
with sadness. Hamlet has never been mistaken for a 
merry production. MacbetJi and King Lear do not com- 
monly produce laughter. Shelley and Keats sing as 
near to heaven's gate as anybody, and both of them 
are essentially sad. Scott was as brave, hopeful, and 
cheerful as any poet that ever lived, and Scott's poetry 
is at its best in his dirges and in his ballads of love and 
loss. The Elegy and The Ancient Marijier certainly are 
great poems, but neither of them is festive. Byron 
often wrote sadly because he was a man of melancholy 
temperament, and because he deeply felt the pathos of 
mortal life, the awful mystery with which it is sur- 
rounded, the pain with which it is usually attended, the 
tragedy with which it commonly is accompanied, the 
frail tenure with w^hich its loves and hopes are held, 
and the inexorable death with which it is continually 
environed and at last extinguished. And Byron was 
an unhappy man for the reason that, possessing every 
elemental natural quality in excess, his goodness was 
constantly tortured by his evil. The tempest, the 
clangour, and the agony of his writings are denote- 
ments of the struggle between good and evil that was 
perpetually afflicting his soul. Had he been the wicked 
man depicted by his detractors, he would have lived a 
life of comfortable depravity and never would have 
written at all. Monsters do not suffer. 

The true appreciation of Byron is not that of youth 
but that of manhood. Youth is captured by his picto- 
rial and sentimental attributes. Youth beholds him as 



VIII BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 127 

a nautical Adonis, standing lonely upon a barren cliff 
and gazing at a stormy sunset over the ^gean sea. 
Everybody knows that familiar picture, — with the wide 
and open collar, the great eyes, the wild hair, and the 
ample neckcloth flowing in the breeze. It is pretty but 
it is not like the real man. If ever at any time he was 
that sentimental image he speedily outgrew that condi- 
tion, just as those observers of him who truly understand 
Byron have long outgrown their juvenile sympathy with 
that frail and puny ideal of a great poet. Manhood 
perceives a different individual and is captured by a 
different attraction. It is only when the first extrava- 
gant and effusive enthusiasm has run its course, and per- 
haps ended in revulsion, that we come to know Byron 
for what he actually is, and to feel the tremendous 
power of his genius. Sentimental folly has commemo- 
rated him, in the margin of Hyde Park, as in the fancy 
of many a callow youth and green girl, with the statue 
of a sailor-lad waiting for a spark from heaven, while a 
Newfoundland dog dozes at his feet. It is a caricature. 
Byron was a man, and terribly in earnest ; and it is only 
by earnest persons that his mind and works are under- 
stood. At this distance of time the scandals of a cor- 
rupt age, equally with the frailties of its most brilliant 
and most illustrious poetical genius, may well be left to 
rest in the oblivion of the grave. The generation that 
is living at the close of the nineteenth century will re- 
member of Byron only that he was the uncompromising 
friend of liberty ; that he did much to emancipate the 
human mind from every form of bigotry and tyranny ; 
that he augmented, as no man had done since Dryden, 
the power and flexibility of the noble English tongue ; 



128 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

and that he enriched literature with passages of poetry 
which, for sublimity, beauty, tenderness, and eloquence, 
have seldom been equalled and have never been ex- 
celled. 

It was near the close of a fragrant, golden summer 
day [August 8, 1884], when, having driven out from 
Nottingham, I alighted in the market-place of the little 
town of Hucknall-Torkard, on a pilgrimage to the grave 
of Byron. The town is modern and commonplace in 
appearance, — a straggling collection of low brick dwell- 
ings, mostly occupied by colliers. On that day it ap- 
peared at its worst ; for the widest part of its main 
street was filled with stalls, benches, wagons, and can- 
vas-covered structures for the display of vegetables and 
other commodities, which were thus offered for sale ; 
and it was thronged with rough, noisy, and dirty per- 
sons, intent on barter and traffic, and not indisposed to 
boisterous pranks and mirth, as they pushed and jostled 
each other, among the crowded booths. This main 
street ends at the wall of the graveyard in which stands 
the little gray church where Byron was buried. There 
is an iron gate in the centre of the wall, and in order 
to reach this it was necessary to thread the mazes of 
the market-place, and to push aside the canvas flaps of 
a peddler's stall which had been placed close against it. 
Next to the churchyard wall is a little cottage, ^ with its 
bit of garden, devoted in this instance to potatoes ; and 
there, while waiting for the sexton, I talked with an 
aged man, who said that he remembered, as an eye- 

1 Since this paper was written the buildings that flanked the church 
wall have been removed, the street in front of it has been widened, and 
the church has been " restored " and considerably altered. 




HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 



■ i(kiJ/U^i£i iiitv 



^29, CV\Y DW^ ANT) GOLD chap. 

which, for siibliuiity, beauty, tenderness, and eloquence, 
have seldom been equalled and have never been ex- 
celk-d 

It -e of a fragrant, golden summer 

(lay ■ \ [jii'V X 1884], when, having driven out from 

d in the market-place of the little 

kard, on a pilgrimage to the grave 

inodern and commonplace in 

'cction of low brick dwell- 

• rs. On that day it ap- 

widest part of its main 

unches, wagons, and can- 

.i display of vegetables and 

were thus offered for sale ; 

HP^UHQ; a!^-^j^fiQTn4J^yi^my, and dirty per- 

; ter and tr;i!fic, and not indisposed to 

and mirth, as thcv pv!Fhcd nnd jostled 

each other, among the • nis main 

■ '" A Inch stands 

taried. There 
i-> an i't the wall, and in order 

;o reach thia it was v to thread the mazes of 

the market-place, and . , , .. ...1 aside the canvas flaps of 
!. peddler's stall which had been placed close against it. 
Next to the churchyard wall is a little cottage,^ with its 
i^it of gar-= -^ ' " nted in this instance to potatoes; and 
I here, wh ;!ig for the sexton, I talked with an 

aged man, who said that he remembered, as an eyc- 

^ Since th'.s jjaper was written the buildings that flanked the church 
wail have been remove^}, the street in front of it has been widened, and 
the church has been " restored " and considerably altered. 




11 .y./^ -" 

M.;j'ii.iJ."Jf>Mvv^. 



BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 



129 



witness, the funeral of Byron. " The oldest man he 
seemed that ever wore gray hairs." He stated that he 
was eighty-two and that his name was William Callan- 
dyne. Pointing to the church, he indicated the place of 
the Byron vault. *' I was the last man," he said, "that 
went down into it, before he was buried there. I was a 
young fellow then, and curious to see what was going 
on. The place was full of skulls and bones. I wish 
you could see my son ; he's a clever lad, only he ought 
to have more of the snaviter in modo'' Thus, with 
the garrulity of wandering age, he prattled on ; but his 
mind was clear and his memory tenacious and positive. 
There is a good prospect from the region of Hucknall- 
Torkard church, and pointing into the distance, when 
his mind had been brought back to the subject of Byron, 
my venerable acquaintance now described, with minute 
specification of road and lane, — seeming to assume 
that the names and the turnings were familiar to his 
auditor, — the course of the funeral train from Notting- 
ham to the church. "There were eleven carriages," he 
said. "They didn't go to the Abbey" (meaning New- 
stead), "but came directly here. There were many peo- 
ple to look at them. I remember all about it, and I'm 
an old man — eighty-two. You're an Italian, I should 
say," he added. By this time the sexton had come and 
unlocked the gate, and parting from Mr. Callandyne we 
presently made our way into the church of St. James, 
locking the churchyard gate behind us, to exclude rough 
and possibly mischievous followers. A strange and sad 
contrast, I thought, between this coarse and turbulent 
place, by a malign destiny ordained for the grave of 
Byron, and that peaceful, lovely, majestic church and 



130 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, viii 

precinct, at Stratford-upon-Avon, which enshrine the 
dust of Shakespeare ! 

The sexton of the church of St James and the parish 
clerk of Hucknall-Torkard was Mr. John Brown, and a 
man of sympathetic inteUigence, kind heart, and in- 
teresting character I found him to be, — large, dark, 
stalwart, but gentle alike in manner and feeling, and 
considerate of his visitor. The pilgrim to the literary 
shrines of England does not always find the neighbour- 
ing inhabitants either sympathetic with his reverence or 
conscious of especial sanctity or interest appertaining to 
the relics which they possess ; but honest and manly 
John Brown of Hucknall-Torkard understood both the 
hallowing charm of the place and the sentiment, not to 
say the profound emotion, of the traveller who now be- 
held for the first time the tomb of Byron. This church 
has been restored and altered since Byron was buried 
in it, in 1824, yet it retains its fundamental structure 
and its ancient peculiarities. The tower, a fine speci- 
men of Norman architecture, strongly built, dark and 
grim, gives indication of great age. It is of a kind 
often met with in ancient English towns : you may see 
its brothers at York, Shrewsbury, Canterbury, Worces- 
ter, Warwick, and in many places sprinkled over the 
northern heights of London : but amid its tame sur- 
roundings in this little colliery settlement it looms with 
a peculiar frowning majesty, a certain bleak loneliness, 
both unique and impressive. The church is of the cus- 
tomary crucial form, — a low stone structure, peak- 
roofed outside, but arched within, the roof being sup- 
ported by four great pillars on either side of the centre 
aisle, and the ceiling being fashioned of heavy timbers 



132 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

forming almost a true arch above the nave. There are 
four large windows on each side of the church, and two 
on each side of the chancel, which is beneath a roof 
somewhat lower than that of the main building. Under 
the pavement of the chancel and back of the altar rail, 

— at which it was my privilege to kneel, while gazing 
upon this sacred spot, — is the grave of Byron. ^ Noth- 
ing is written on the stone that covers his sepulchre 
except the name of BYRON, with the dates of his 
birth and death, in brass letters, surrounded by a 
wreath of leaves, in brass, the gift of the King of 
Greece ; and never did a name seem more stately or a 
place more hallowed. The dust of the poet reposes 
between that of his mother, on his right hand, and that 
of his Ada, — '* sole daughter of my house and heart," 

— on his left. The mother died on August i, 1811; 
the daughter, who had by marriage become the Coun- 
tess of Lovelace, in 1852. " I buried her with my own 
hands," said the sexton, John Brown, when, after a little 
time, he rejoined me at the altar rail. "I told them 
exactly where he was laid, when they wanted to put 
that brass on the stone; I remembered it well, -for I 
lowered the coffin of the Countess of Lovelace into this 
vault, and laid her by her father's side." And when 
presently we went into a little vestry he produced the 
Register of Burials and displayed the record of that 
interment, in the following words: " 1852. Died at 69 
Cumberland Place, London. Buried December 3. Aged 

1 Revisiting this place on September 10, 1890, I found that the chancel 
has been lengthened, that the altar and the mural tablets have been moved 
back from the Byron vault, and that his gravestone is now outside of the 
rail. 



VIII BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 133 

thirty-six. — Curtis Jackson." The Byrons were a short- 
lived race. The poet himself had just turned thirty-six; 
his mother was only forty-six when she passed away. 
This name of Curtis Jackson in the register was that of 
the rector or curate then incumbent but now departed. 
The register is a long narrow book made of parchment 
and full of various crabbed handwritings, — a record 
similar to those which are so carefully treasured at the 
church of the Holy Trinity at Stratford ; but it is more 
dilapidated. 

Another relic shown by John Brown was a bit of em- 
broidery, presenting the arms of the Byron family. It 
had been used at Byron's funeral, and thereafter was 
long kept in the church, though latterly with but little 
care. When the Rev. Curtis Jackson came there he 
beheld this frail memorial with pious disapprobation. 
'* He told me," said the sexton, ''to take it home and 
burn it. I did take it home, but I didn't burn it ; and 
when the new rector came he heard of it and asked me 
to bring it back, and a lady gave the frame to put it in." 
Framed it is, and likely now to be always preserved in 
this interesting church ; and earnestly do I wish that I 
could remember, in order that I might speak it with 
honour, the name of the clergyman who could thus 
rebuke bigotry, and welcome and treasure in his church 
that shred of silk which once rested on the coffin of 
Byron. Still another relic preserved by John Brown 
is a large piece of cardboard bearing the inscription 
which is upon the coffin of the poet's mother, and which 
bore some part in the obsequies of that singular woman, 
— a creature full of faults, but the parent of a mighty 
genius, and capable of inspiring deep love. On the 



134 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, 

night after Byron arrived at Newstead, whither he re- 
paired from London, on receiving news of her illness, 
only to find her dead, he was found sitting in the dark 
and sobbing beside the corse. *' I had but one friend 
in the world," he said, "and she is gone." He was 
soon to publish CJiildc Harold, and to gain hosts of 
friends and have the world at his feet ; but he spoke 
what he felt, and he spoke the truth, in that dark room 
on that desolate night. Thoughts of these things, and 
of many other strange passages and incidents in his 
brief, checkered, glorious, lamentable life, thronged 
into my mind as I stood there, in presence of those 
relics and so near his dust, while the church grew dark 
and the silence seemed to deepen in the dusk of the 
gathering night. 

They have for many years kept a book at the church 
of Hucknall-Torkard [the first one, an album given by 
Sir John Bowring, containing the record of visita- 
tions from 1825 to 1834, disappeared^ in the latter 
year, or soon after], in which the visitors write their 
names ; but the catalogue of pilgrims during the last 
fifty years is not a long one. The votaries of Byron 
are far less numerous than those of Shakespeare. Cus- 
tom has made the visit to Stratford " a property of easi- 
ness," and Shakespeare is a safe no less than a rightful 
object of worship. The visit to Hucknall-Torkard is 
neither so easy nor so agreeable, and it requires some 
courage to be a votary of Byron, — and to own it. No 
day passes without bringing its visitor to the Shake- 

1 It is now, 1896, said to be in the possession of a resident of one of 
our Southern cities, who says that he obtained it from one of his relatives, 
to whom it was given by the parish clerk, in 1834. 



BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 



135 



speare cottage and the Shakespeare tomb; many days 
pass without bringing a stranger to the church of St. 
James. On the capital of a cohmm near Byron's tomb 
I saw two mouldering wreaths of laurel, which had hung 
there for several years ; one brought by the Bishop of 
Norwich, the other by the American poet Joaquin Miller. 
It was good to see them, and especially to see them 




^^^^v><^^ 



II i' 



.J._^ 






I ^^i' ^ "ill 




Hiicknall- Torkard Church — biter ior. 



l:^- 



close by the tablet of white marble which was placed on 
that church wall to commemorate the poet, and to be 
her witness in death, by his loving and beloved sister 
Augusta Mary Leigh, — a name that is the synonym of 
noble fidelity, a name that in our day cruel detraction 
and hideous calumny have done their worst to tarnish. 



136 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

That tablet names him "The Author of Childe Harold's 
Pilgrimage " ; and if the conviction of thoughtful men 
and women throughout the world can be accepted as 
an authority, no name in the long annals of English 
literature is more certain of immortality than the name 
of Byron. People mention the poetry of Spenser and 
Cowley and Dryden and Cowper, but the poetry of 
Byron they read. His reputation can afford the ab- 
sence of all memorial to him in Westminster Abbey, and 
it can endure the neglect and censure of the precinct 
of Nottingham. That city rejoices in a stately castle 
throned upon a rock, and persons who admire the 
Stuarts may exult in the recollection that there the 
standard of Charles the First was unfurled, in his fatal 
war with the Parliament of England ; but all that really 
hallows it for the stranger of to-day and for posterity is 
its association with the name of Byron. The stranger 
will look in vain, however, for any adequate sign of his for- 
mer association with that place. It is difficult even to find 
prints or photographs of the Byron shrines, in the shops 
of Nottingham. One dealer, from whom I bought all 
the Byron pictures that he possessed, was kind enough 
to explain the situation, in one expressive sentence : 
'' Much more ought to be done here as to Lord Byron's 
memory, that is the truth ; but the fact is, the first fami- 
lies of the county don't approve of him." 

When we came again into the churchyard, with its 
many scattered graves and its quaint stones and crosses 
leaning every way, and huddled in a strange kind of or- 
derly confusion, the great dark tower stood out bold and 
solitary in the gloaming, and a chill wind of evening had 
begun to moan around its pinnacles, and through its mys- 



VIII BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 137 

terious belfry windows, and in the few trees near by, 
which gave forth a mournful whisper. It was hard to 
leave the place, and for a long time I stood near the 
chapel, just above the outer wall of the Byron vault. 
And there the sexton told me the story of the White 
Lady, — pointing, as he spoke, to a cottage abutting on 
the churchyard, one window in which commands a clear 
view of the place of Byron's grave. [That house has 
since been removed.] "There she lived," he said, "and 
there she died, and there," pointing to an unmarked 
grave near the pathway, about thirty feet from the 
Byron vault, " I buried her." It is impossible to give his 
words or to indicate his earnest manner. In brief, this 
lady, whose past no one knew, had taken up her resi- 
dence in this cottage long subsequent to the burial of 
Byron, and had remained there until she died. She 
was pale, thin, handsome, and she wore white garments. 
Her face was often to be seen at that window, whether 
by night or day, and she seemed to be watching the 
tomb. Once, when masons were repairing the church 
wall, she was enabled to descend into that vault, and 
therefrom she obtained a skull, which she declared to 
be Byron's, and which she scraped, polished, and made 
perfectly white, and kept always beneath her pillow. 
It was her request, often made to the sexton, that she 
might be buried in the churchyard, close to the wall of 
the poet's tomb. "When at last she died," said John 
Brown, " they brought that skull to me, and I buried it 
there in the ground. It was one of the loose skulls 
from the old vault. She thought it was Byron's, and it 
pleased her to think so. I might have laid her close to 
this wall. I don't know why I didn't." 



138 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD ChaP. 

In those words the sexton's story ended. It was only- 
one more of the myriad hints of that romance which the 
life and poetry of Byron have so widely created and 
diffused. I glanced around for some relic of the place 
that might properly be taken away : there was neither 
an ivy leaf shining upon the wall nor a flower growing 
in all that ground; but into a crevice of the rock, just 
above his tomb, the wind had at some time blown a 
little earth, and in this a few blades of grass were thinly 
rooted. These I gathered, and still possess, as a me- 
mento of an evening at Byron's grave. 

Note on the Missing Register of Hucknall- 
ToRKARD Church 

The Album that was given to Hucknall-Torkard 
church, in 1825, by Sir John Bowring, to be used as a 
register of the names of visitors to Byron's tomb, disap- 
peared from that church in the year 1834, or soon after, 
and it is supposed to have been stolen. In 1834 its 
contents were printed, — from a manuscript copy of it, 
which had been obtained from the sexton, — in a book 
of selections from Byron's prose, edited by "J. M. L." 
Those initials stand for the name of Joseph Munt Lang- 
ford, who died in 1884. The dedication of the register 
is in the following words : '' To the immortal and illus- 
trious fame of Lord Byron, the first poet of the age in 
which he lived, these tributes, weak and unworthy of 
him, but in themselves sincere, are inscribed with the 
deepest reverence. — July 1825." At that time no 
memorial of any kind had been placed in the church to 
mark the poet's sepulchre : a fact which prompted Sir 
John Bowring to begin his Album with twenty-eight 
lines of verse, of which these are the best : 



VIII BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 139 

" A still, resistless influence, 
Unseen but felt, binds up the sense . . . 
And though the master hand is cold, 
And though the lyre it once controlled 
Rests ir/ute in death, yet from the gloom 
Which dwells about this holy tomb 
Silence breathes out more eloquent 
Than epitaph or monument." 

This register was used from 1825 till 1834. It con- 
tains eight hundred and fifteen names, with which are 
intertwined twenty-eight inscriptions in verse and thirty- 
six in prose. The first name is that of Count Pietro 
Gamba, who visited his friend's grave on January 31, 
1825 : but this must have been a reminiscent memoran- 
dum, as the book was not opened till the following July. 
The next entry was made by Byron's old servant, the 
date being September 23, 1825: ''William Fletcher 
visited his ever-to-be-lamented lord and master's tomb." 
On September 21, 1828, the following singular record 
was written : "Joseph Carr, engraver. Hound's Gate, 
Nottingham, visited this place for the first time to wit- 
ness the funeral of Lady Byron [mother of the much 
lamented late Lord Byron], August 9th, 181 1, whose 
coffin-plate I engraved, and now I once more revisit the 
spot to drop a tear as a tribute of unfeigned respect to 
the mortal remains of that noble British bard. ' Tho' 
lost to sight, to memory dear.' " The next notable 
entry is that of September 3, 1829: "Lord Byron's 
sister, the Honourable Augusta Mary Leigh, visited 
this church." Under the date of January 8, 1832, are 
found the names of " M. Van Buren, Minister Plenipo- 
tentiary from the United States ; Washington Irving ; 
John Van Buren, New York, U.S.A., and J. Wildman." 



140 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, viii 



The latter was Colonel Wildman, the proprietor of 
Newstead Abbey, Byron's old home, now owned by 
Colonel Webb. On August 5, 1832, "Mr. Bunn, mana- 
ger of Drury Lane theatre, honoured, by the acquaint- 
ance of the illustrious poet, visited Lord Byron's tomb, 
with a party." Edward F. Flower and Selina Flower, 
of Stratford-upon-Avon, record their presence, on Sep- 
tember 15, 1832, — the parents of Charles Edward 
Flower and Edgar Flower, of Stratford, the former 
being the founder of the Shakespeare Memorial. There 
are several eccentric tributes in the register, but the 
most of them are feeble. One of the better kind is 
this : 

" Not in that palace where the dead repose 
In splendid holiness, where Time has spread 
His sombre shadows, and a halo glows 
Around the ashes of the mighty dead, 
Life's weary pilgrim rests his aching head. 
This is his resting-place, and save his own 
No light, no glory round his grave is shed : 
But memory journeys to his shrine alone 
To mark how sound he sleeps, beneath yon simple stone. 

"Ah, say, art thou ambitious? thy young breast — 
Oh, does it pant for honours? dost thou chase 
The phantom Fame, in fairy colours drest, 
Expecting all the while to win the race? 
Oh, does the flush of youth adorn thy face 
And dost thou deem it lasting? dost thou crave 
The hero's wreath, the poet's meed of praise? 
Learn that of this, these, all, not one can save 
From the chill hand of death. Behold Childe Harold's 
grave!" 




CHAPTER IX 



HISTORIC NOOKS OF WARWICKSHIRE 




TRATFORD-UPON-AVON, August 20, 
1889. — The traveller who hurries through 
Warwickshire, — and American travellers 
mostly do hurry through it, — appreciates 
but little the things that he sees, and does 
not understand how much he loses. The customary 
course is to lodge at the Red Horse, which is one of the 
most comfortable houses in England, and thus to enjoy 
the associations that are connected with the visits of 
Washington Irving. His parlour, his bedroom (num- 
ber 15), his arm-chair, his poker, and the sexton's 
clock, mentioned by him in the Sketch Book, are all to 
be seen, if your lightning-express conductor will give 
you time enough to see them. From the Red Horse 
you are taken in a carriage, when you ought to be al- 
lowed to proceed on foot, and the usual round includes 
the Shakespeare Birthplace ; the Grammar School and 
Guild chapel ; the remains of New Place ; Trinity 
church and the Shakespeare graves in its chancel; 
Anne Hathaway's cottage at Shottery ; and, perhaps, 
the Shakespeare Memorial library and theatre. These 

141 



142 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



are impressive sights to the lover of Shakespeare ; but 
when you have seen all these you have only begun to 
see the riches of Stratford-upon-Avon. It is only by 
living in the town, by making yourself familiar with it 
in all its moods, by viewing it in storm as well as in 
sunshine, by roaming through its quaint, deserted streets 
in the lonely hours of the night, by sailing up and down 




The Red Horse Hotel. 



the beautiful Avon, by driving and walking in the 
green lanes that twine about it for many miles in every 
direction, by becoming, in fact, a part of its actual 
being, that you obtain a genuine knowledge of that 
delightful place. Familiarity, in this case, does not 
breed contempt. The worst you will ^ver learn of 



IX HISTORIC NOOKS OF WARWICKSHIRE 143 

Stratford is that gossip thrives in it ; that its intel- 
lect is, with due exception, narrow and sleepy ; and 
that it is heavily ridden by the ecclesiastical establish- 
ment. You will never find anything that can detract 
from the impression of beauty and repose made upon 
your mind by the sweet retirement ot its situation, by 
the majesty of its venerable monuments, and by the 
opulent, diversified splendours of its natural and his- 
torical environment. On the contrary, the more you 
know of those charms the more you will love the town, 
and the greater will be the benefit of high thought and 
spiritual exaltation that you will derive from your 
knowledge of it; and hence it is important that the 
American traveller should be counselled for his own 
sake to live a little while in Stratford instead of treating 
it as an incident of his journey. 

The occasion of a garden party at the rectory of a 
clerical friend at Butler's Marston gave opportunity to 
see one of the many picturesque and happy homes 
with which this region abounds. The lawns there are 
ample and sumptuous. The dwelling and the church, 
which are close to each other, are bowered in great 
trees. From the terraces a lovely view may be ob- 
tained of the richly coloured and finely cultivated fields, 
stretching away toward Edgehill, which lies southeast 
from Stratford-upon-Avon about sixteen miles away, and 
marks the beginning of the Vale of the Red Horse. In 
the churchyard are the gray, lichen-covered remains of 
one of those ancient crosses from the steps of which 
the monks preached, in the early days of the church. 
Relics of this class are deeply interesting for what they 
suggest of the people and the life of earlier times. A 



44 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



fine specimen of the ancient cross may be seen at 
Henley-in-Arden, a few miles northwest of Stratford, 
where it stands, in mouldering majesty in the centre 
of the village, — strangely inharmonious with the petty 
shops and numerous inns of which that long and 
straggling but characteristic and attractive settlement 
is composed. The tower of the church at Butler's 
Marston, a gray, grim structure, '* four-square to oppo- 
sition," was built in the eleventh century, — a period 
of much ecclesiastical activity in the British islands. 
Within it I found a noble pulpit, of carved oak, dark 
with age, of the time of James the First. There are 
many commemorative stones in the church, on one of 
which appears this lovely couplet, addressed to the 
shade of a young girl : 

"Sleep, gentle soal, and wait thy Maker's will! 
Then rise unchanged, and be an angel still." 

The present village of Butler's Marston, — a little 
group of cottages clustered upon the margin of a tiny 
stream and almost hidden in a wooded dell, — is com- 
paratively new ; for it has arisen since the time of the 
Puritan civil war. The old village was swept away by 
the Roundheads, when Essex and Hampden came down 
to fight King Charles at Edgehill, in 1642. That fierce 
strife raged all along the country-side, and you may still 
perceive there, in the inequalities of the land, the sites on 
which houses formerly stood. It is a sweet and peace- 
ful place now, smiling with flowers and musical with 
the rustle of the leaves of giant elms. The clergyman 
farms his own glebe, and he has expended more than 
a thousand pounds in the renovation of his manse. 



IX HISTORIC NOOKS OF WARWICKSHIRE 145 

The church " living " is not worth much more than a 
hundred pounds a year, and when he leaves the dwell- 
ing, if he should ever leave it, he loses the value of all 
the improvements that he has made. This he men- 
tioned with a contented smile. The place, in fact, is 
a little paradise, and as I looked across the green and 
golden fields, and saw the herds at rest and the wheat 
waving in sun and shadow, and thought of the simple 
life of the handful of people congregated here, the 
words of Gray came murmuring into my mind : 

" Far from the madding crowd^s ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.'" 

'* Unregarded age, in corners thrown." Was that 
fine line suggested to Shakespeare by the spectacle 
of the almshouses of the Guild, which stood in his 
time, just as they stand now, close to the spot where he 
lived and died ? New Place, Shakespeare's home, stood 
on the northeast corner of Chapel street and Chapel 
lane. The Guild chapel stands on the southeast cor- 
ner of those streets, immediately opposite to what was 
once the poet's home. Southward from the chapel, and 
adjoining to it, extends the long, low, sombre building 
that contains the Free Grammar School, founded by 
Thomas Jolyffe in 1482, and refounded in 1553 by King 
Edward the Sixth. In that grammar school, there is 
reason to believe, Shakespeare was educated ; at first 
by Walter Roche, afterward by Simon Hunt, — who 
doubtless birched the little boys then, even as the 
head-master does now; it being a cardinal principle 



CHAP. IX HISTORIC NOOKS OF WARWICKSHIRE 



47 



with the British educator that learning, like other 
goods, should be delivered in the rear. In those alms- 
houses doubtless there were many forlorn inmates, even 
as there are at present, — and Shakespeare must often 
have seen them. On visiting one of the bedesmen I 
found him moving slowly, with that mild, aimless, inert 
manner and that bleak aspect peculiar to such remnants 
of vanishing life, among the vegetable vines and the 




Interior of the Grammar School. 

profuse, rambling flowers in the sunny garden behind 
the house ; and presently I went into his humble room 
and sat by his fireside. The scene was the perfect ful- 
filment of Shakespeare's line. A stone floor. A low 
ceiling crossed with dusky beams. Walls that had been 
whitewashed long ago. A small iron kettle, with water 
in it, simmering over a few smouldering coals. A rough 



148 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

bed, in a corner. A little table, on which were three 
conch-shells ranged in a row. An old arm-chair, on 
which were a few coarse wads of horsehair, as a cush- 
ion. A bench, whereon lay a torn, tattered, soiled copy 
of the prayer book of the church of England, beginning 
at the epiphany. This sumptuous place was lighted by 
a lattice of small leaded panes. And upon one of the 
walls hung a framed placard of worsted work, bearing 
the inscription, *' Blessed be the Lord for His Unspeak- 
able Gift." The aged, infirm pensioner doddered about 
the room, and when he was asked what had become of 
his wife his dull eyes filled with tears and he said sim- 
ply that she was dead. ** So runs the world away." 
The summons surely cannot be unwelcome that calls 
such an old and lonely pilgrim as that to his rest in 
yonder churchyard and to his lost wife who is waiting 
for him. 

Warwickshire is hallowed by shining names of per- 
sons illustrious in the annals of art. Drayton, Greene, 
and Heminge, who belong to the Shakespeare period, 
were born there. Walter Savage Landor was a native 
of Warwick, — in which quaint and charming town you 
may see the house of his birth, duly marked. Croft, 
the composer, was born near Ettington, hard by Strat- 
ford : there is a tiny monument, commemorative of him, 
in the ruins of Ettington church, near the manor-house 
of Shirley. And in our own day Warwickshire has 
enriched the world with " George Eliot " and with 
that matchless actress, — the one Ophelia and the one 
Beatrice of our age — Ellen Terry. But it is a chief 
characteristic of England that whichever way you 
turn in it your footsteps fall on haunted ground. 



IX HISTORIC NOOKS OF WARWICKSHIRE 149 

Everyday life here is continually impressed by inci- 
dents of historic association. In an old church at 
Greenwich I asked that I might be directed to the 
tomb of General Wolfe. '* He is buried just beneath 
where you are now standing," the custodian said. It 
was an elderly woman who showed the place, and she 
presently stated that when a girl she once entered the 
vault beneath that church and stood beside the coffin 
of General Wolfe and took a piece of laurel from it, and 
also took a piece of the red velvet pall from the coffin 
of the old Duchess of Bolton, close by. That Duchess 
was Lavinia Fenton, the first representative of Polly 
Peachem, in The Beggars' Opera, who died in 1760, aged 
fifty-two.i ''Lord Clive," the dame added, ''is buried 
in the same vault with Wolfe." An impressive thought, 
that the ashes of the man who established Britain's 
power in America should at last mingle with the ashes 
of the man who gave India to England ! 

1 Dr. Joseph Wharton, in a letter to the poet Gay, described Lavinia 
Fenton as follows : " She was a very accomplished and most agreeable 
companion; had much wit, good strong sense, and a just taste in polite 
literature. Her person was agreeable and well made; though I think she 
could never be called a beauty. I have had the pleasure of being at table 
with her when her conversation was much admired by the first characters 
of the age, particularly old Lord Bathurst and Lord Granville." 

General James Wolfe, killed in battle, at the famous storming of 
Quebec, was born in 1726, and he died in 1759. 

Robert Clive, the famous soldier and the first Lord Clive, was born in 
1725, and he died, a suicide, — haunted, it was superstitiously said, by 
ghosts of slaughtered East Indians, — in 1774. 



CHAPTER X 



SHAKESPEARE S TOWN 




O traverse Stratford-upon-Avon is to re- 
turn upon old tracks, but no matter how 
often you visit that delightful place you 
will always see new sights in it and find 
new incidents. After repeated visits to 
Shakespeare's town the traveller begins 
to take more notice than perhaps at first he did of its 
everyday life. In former days the observer had no eyes 
except for the Shakespeare shrines. The addition of a 
new wing to the ancient, storied, home-like Red Horse, 
the new gardens around the Memorial theatre, the com- 
pleted chime of Trinity bells, — these, and matters like to 
these, attract attention now. And now, too, I have ram- 
bled, in the gloaming, through scented fields to Clifford 
church ; and strolled through many a green lane to beau- 
tiful Preston ; and climbed Borden hill ; and stood by the 
maypole on Welford common ; and journeyed along the 
battle-haunted crest of Edgehill ; and rested at vener- 
able Compton-Wynyate ; ^ and climbed the hills of Wel- 

1 The romantic house of Compton Wynyate was built of material taken 
from a ruined castle at Fulbrooke, by Sir W^illiam Compton, in the reign 
of Henry the Eighth. Wynyate signifies a vineyard. 



CHAP. X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 1 5 1 

combe to peer into the darkening valleys of the Avon 
and hear the cuckoo-note echoed and re-echoed from 
rhododendron groves, and from the great, mysterious 
elms that embower this country-side for miles and miles 
around. This is the life of Stratford to-day, — the fer- 
tile farms, the garnished meadows, the avenues of white 
and coral hawthorn, masses of milky snow-ball, honey- 
suckle and syringa loading the soft air with fragrance, 
chestnuts dropping blooms of pink and white, and labur- 
nums swinging their golden censers in the breeze. 

The building that forms the southeast corner of High 
street and Bridge street in Stratford was once occupied 
by Thomas Quiney, a wine-dealer, who married the 
poet's youngest daughter, Judith, and an inscription ap- 
pears upon it, stating that Judith lived in it for thirty- 
six years. Richard Savage, that competent, patient, 
diligent student of the church registers and other docu- 
mentary treasures of Warwickshire, furnished the proof 
of this fact, from investigation of the town records ^- 
which is but one of many services that he has rendered 
to the old home of Shakespeare. The Quiney premises 
are now occupied by Edward Fox, a journalist, a printer, 
and a dealer in souvenirs of Shakespeare and of Strat- 
ford. That house, in old times, was officially styled The 
Cage, because it had been used as a prison. Standing 
in the cellar of it you perceive that its walls are four 
feet thick. There likewise are seen traces of the 
grooves down which the wine-casks were rolled, in the 
days of Shakespeare's son-in-law, Thomas Quiney. The 
business now carried on by Edward Fox has been estab- 
lished in Stratford more than a hundred years, and, as 
this tenant has a long lease of the building and is of 




i M 



Trinity Church — Stratford-upon-Avon. 



CHAP. X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 1 53 

an energetic spirit in his pursuits, it bids fair to last as 
much longer. An indication of Mr. Fox's sagacity was 
revealed to me in the cellar, where was heaped a quan- 
tity of old oak, taken, in 1887, from the belfry of Trin- 
ity church, in which Shakespeare is buried. This oak, 
which was there when Shakespeare lived, and which had 
to be removed because a stronger structure was required 
for sustaining an augmented chime of heavy bells, will 
be converted into various carved relics, such as must find 
favour with Shakespeare worshippers, — of whom more 
than sixteen thousand visited Stratford in 1887, at least 
one-fourth of that number [4482] being Americans. A 
cross made of the belfry wood is a pleasing souvenir of 
the hallowed Shakespeare church. When the poet saw 
that church the tower was surmounted, not as now with 
a graceful stone spire, but with a spire of timber, cov- 
ered with lead. This was removed, and was replaced 
by the stone spire, in 1763. The oak frame to support 
the bells, however, had been in the tower more than 
three hundred years. 

The two sculptured groups, emblematic of Comedy 
and Tragedy, which have been placed upon the front 
of the Shakespeare Memorial theatre, are the gain of 
a benefit performance, given in that building on August 
29, 1885, by Miss Mary Anderson,^ who then, for the 
first time in her life, impersonated Shakespeare's Rosa- 
lind. That actress, after her first visit to Stratford, — 
a private visit made in 1883, — manifested a deep in- 

1 Miss Mary Anderson, the distinguished American actress, was mar- 
ried, on June 17, 1890, at Hanipstead, to Mr. Antonio De Navarro. Her 
Autobiography, called A Feiv Memories of My Life, was published, in 
London, in March, 1896. 



154 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



terest in the town, and because of her services to the 
Shakespeare Memorial she is now one of its life-govern- 
ors. Those services completed the exterior decorations 
of the building. The emblem of History had already 
been put in its place, — the scene in KingJoJin in which 
Prince Arthur melts the cruel purpose of Hubert to burn 
out his eyes. Tragedy is represented by Hamlet and the 
Gravedigger, in their colloquy over Yorick's skull. In 




The Shakespeare Memorial Theatre. 



the emblem of Comedy the figure of Rosalind is that of 
Miss Mary Anderson, in a boy's dress, — a figure that 
may be deemed inadequate to the original, but one that 
certainly is expressive of the ingenuous demeanour and 
artless grace of that gentle lady. The grounds south of 
the Memorial are diversified and adorned with lawns, 
trees, flowers, and commodious pathways, and that 
lovely, park-like enclosure, — thus beautified through 



X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 1 55 

the liberality of Charles Edward Flower [obiit, May 
3, 1892], the original promoter of the Memorial, — is 
now free to the people, " to walk abroad and recreate 
themselves" beside the Avon. The picture gallery of 
the Memorial lacks many things that are needed. The 
library continues to grow, but the American depart- 
ment of it needs accessions. Every American edition 
of Shakespeare ought co be there, and every book of 
American origin, on a Shakespeare subject. It was at 
one time purposed to set up a special case, surmounted 
with the American ensign, for the reception of con- 
tributions from Americans. The library contained, in 
March, 1890, five thousand seven hundred and ninety 
volumes, in various languages. [Now, in 1896, it com- 
prises about eight thousand volumes.] Of Enghsh 
editions of the complete works of Shakespeare it con- 
tains two hundred and nine. A Russian translation of 
Shakespeare, in nine volumes, appears in the collection, 
together with three complete editions in Dutch. An 
elaborate and beautiful catalogue of those treasures, 
made by Mr. Frederic Hawley, records them in an im- 
perishable form. Mr. Hawley, long the librarian of the 
Memorial, died at Stratford on March 13, 1889, aged 
sixty-two, and was buried at Kensal Green, in London, 
his wish being that his ashes should rest in that place. 
Mr. Hawley had been an actor, under the name of Hay- 
well, and he was the author of more than one tragedy, in 
blank verse. Mr. A. H. Wall, who succeeded him as 
librarian,^ is a learned antiquary and an admired writer. 

1 Mr. Wall retired from the office of librarian of the Shakespeare 
Memorial in June, 1895, ^^^ ^^^ succeeded by Mr. William Salt Bras- 
sington. 



156 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

To him the readers of the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald 
are indebted for instructive articles, — notably for those 
giving an account of the original Shakespeare quartos 
acquired for the Memorial library at the sale of the 
literary property of J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps. Those 
quartos are the Merchant of Venice^ the Merry Wives 
of Windsor, and a first edition of Pericles. A copy of 
Roger of Faversham was also bought, together with two 
of the plays of Aphra Behn. Charles Edward Flower 
purchased, at that sale, a copy of the first folio of 
Shakespeare, and the four Shakespeare Folios, 1623, 
1632, 1663, 1685, stand side by side in his private 
library at Avonbank. Mr. Flower intimated the in- 
tention of giving them to the Memorial library. [His 
death did not defeat that purpose. Those precious 
books are now in the Memorial collection.] 

A large collection of old writings was found in a room 
of the Grammar School, adjacent to the Guild chapel, in 
1887. About five thousand separate papers were dis- 
covered, the old commingled with the new ; many of 
them indentures of apprenticeship ; many of them re- 
ceipts for money ; no one of them especially important, 
as bearing on the Shakespeare story. Several of them 
are in Latin. The earliest date is 1 560, — four years 
before the poet was born. One document is a memo- 
randum *' presenting " a couple of the wives of Stratford 
for slander of certain other women, and quoting their 
bad language with startling fidelity. Another is a letter 
from a citizen of London, named Smart, establishing and 
endowing a free school in Stratford for teaching Eng- 
lish, — the writer quaintly remarking that schools for 
the teaching of Latin are numerous, while no school for 



X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 157 

teaching English exists, that he can discover. Those 
papers have been classified and arranged by Richard 
Savage, but nothing directly pertinent to Shakespeare 
has been found in them. I saw a deed that bore the 
''mark" of Joan, sister of Mary Arden, Shakespeare's 
mother, but this may not be a recent discovery. All 
those papers are written in that ''cramped penmanship" 
which baffled Tony Lumpkin, and which baffles wiser 
people than he was. Richard Savage, however, is skil- 
ful in reading this crooked and queer calligraphy ; and 
the materials and the duty of exploring them are in 
the right hands. When the researches and conclusions 
of that scholar are published they will augment the 
mass of evidence already extant, — much of it well pre- 
sented by J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps, — that the writer of 
Shakespeare's plays was a man familiar with the neigh- 
bourhood, the names, and the everyday life of Stratford- 
upon-Avon ; a fact which is not without its admonitory 
suggestiveness to those credulous persons who incline 
to heed the ignorant and idle theories and conjectures 
of Mr. Ignatius Donnelly. That mistaken and some- 
what mischievous writer visited Shakespeare's town in 
the summer of 1888, and surveyed the scenes that are 
usually viewed. " He did not address himself to me," 
said Miss Chattaway, who was then at the Birthplace, 
as its custodian ; " had he done so I should have in- 
formed him that, in Stratford, Bacon is all gammon." 
She was right. So it is. And not alone in Stratford, 
but wherever men and women have eyes to see and 
brains to understand. 

The spot on which Shakespeare died ought surely to 
be deemed as sacred as the spot on which he was born : 



158 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



yet New Place is not as much visited as the Birthplace, 
— perhaps because so little of it remains. Only five 
hundred and thirty-seven visitors went there during the 




^ ^^^i%-sr 



An Old Stratford Character : George Robbifis. Died September ij, rSSg, 

aged y8. 

year ending April 13, 1888.^ In repairing the custo- 
dian's house at New Place the crossed timbers in the 



1 In 1894 the number of visitors to New Place was 809 ; in 1895 ^^ 
was 716, while 13,028 visited the Memorial. 



X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 1 59 

one remaining fragment of the north wall of the origi- 
nal structure were found, beneath plaster. Those have 
been left uncovered and their dark lines add to the 
picturesque effect of the place. The aspect of the 
old house prior to 1742 is known but vaguely, if at all. 
Shakespeare bought it in 1597, when he was thirty-three 
years old, and he kept it till his death, nineteen years 
later. The street. Chapel lane, that separates it from 
the Guild chapel was narrower than it is now, and the 
house stood in a grassy enclosure, encompassed by a 
wall, the entrance to the garden being at some distance 
eastward in the lane, toward the river. The chief rooms 
in New Place were lined with square, sunken panels of 
oak, which covered the walls from floor to roof and prob- 
ably formed the ceilings. Some of those panels, — ob- 
tained when the Rev. Francis Gastrell tore down that 
house in 1759, — may be seen in a parlour of the Falcon 
hotel; at the corner of Scholar's lane and Chapel street. 
There is nothing left of New Place but the old well in 
the cellar, the fragments of the foundation, the lintel, 
the armorial stone, and the fragment of wall that forms 
part of the custodian's house. That custodian, Mr. 
Bower Bulmer, a pleasant, appreciative, and genial man, 
died on January 17, 1888, and his widow succeeded him 
in office.-^ Another conspicuous and interesting Strat- 
ford figure, well known and for a long time, was John 
Marshall, the antiquary, who died on June 26, 1887. 
Mr. Marshall occupied the building next but one to the 
original New Place, on the north side, — the house once 

1 Mrs. Bulmer served as custodian of New Place until her death, on 
March 14, 1896. The office was then assigned to Richard Savage, in 
addition to his other offices. 



l6o • GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

tenanted by Julius Shaw, one of the five witnesses to 
Shakespeare's will. Mr. Marshall sold Shakespeare 
souvenirs and quaint furniture. He had remarkable 
skill in carving, and his mind was full of knowledge of 
Shakespeare antiquities and the traditional lore of Strat- 
ford. His kindness, his eccentric ways, his elaborate 
forms of speech, and his love and faculty for art com- 
mended him to the respect and sympathy of all who 
knew him. He was a character, — and in such a place 
as Stratford such quaint beings are appropriate and un- 
commonly delightful. He will long be kindly remem- 
bered, long missed from his accustomed round. He 
rests now, in an unmarked grave, in Trinity churchyard, 
close to the bank of the Avon, — just east of the stone 
that marks the sepulchre of Mary Pickering ; by which 
token the future pilgrim may know the spot. Marshall 
was well known to me, and we had many a talk about 
the antiquities of the town. Among my relics there was 
for some time [until at last I gave it to Edwin Booth], 
a precious piece of wood, bearing this inscription, written 
by him : *' Old Oak from Shakespeare's Birth-place, 
taken out of the building when it was Restored in 1858 
by Mr. William Holtom, the contractor for the restora- 
tion, who supplied it to John Marshall, carver, Stratford- 
on-Avon, and presented by him to W. Winter, August 
27th, 1885, J. M." Another valued souvenir of this 
quaint person, given by his widow to Richard Savage, 
of the Birthplace, — a fine carved goblet, made from 
the wood of the renowned mulberry-tree planted by the 
poet in the garden of New Place, and cut down by the 
Rev. Francis Gastrell in 1756, — came into my posses- 
sion, as a birthday gift from Mr. Savage, on July 1$, 
1891. 



X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN l6l 

At the Shakespeare Birthplace you will no longer 
meet with those gentle ladies, — so quaint, so charac- 
teristic, so harmonious with the place, — Miss Maria 
Chattaway and Miss Caroline Chattaway. The former 
was the official custodian of the cottage, and the latter 
assisted her in the work of its exposition. They re- 
tired from office in June, 1889, after seventeen years of 
service, the former aged seventy-six, the latter seventy- 
eight ; and now, — being infirm, and incapable of the 
active, incessant labour that was required of them by 
the multitude of visitors, — they dwell in a little house 
in the Warwick Road, where their friends are welcomed, 
and where venerable and honoured age may haunt the 
chimney-corner, and " keep the flame from wasting, by 
repose."^ The new guardian of the Shakespeare cot- 
tage is Joseph Skipsey,^ of Newcastle, the miner poet : 
for Mr. Skipsey was trained in the mines of Northum- 
berland, was long a labourer in them, and his muse sings 
in the simple accents of nature. He is the author of an 
essay on Burns, and of various other essays and miscel- 
laneous writings. An edition of his poems, under the 
title of Carols, Sougs, and Ballads has been published in 
London, by Walter Scott, and that book will be found 
interesting by those who enjoy the study of original 
character and of a rhythmical expression that does not 
savour of any poetical school. Mr. Skipsey is an elderly 
man, with grizzled hair, a benevolent countenance, and 
a simple, cordial manner. He spoke to me, with much 

1 Miss Maria Chattaway died on January 31, 1891. Miss Caroline 
Chattaway removed from Stratford on October 7, 1895, ^o Haslor. 

2 Mr. Skipsey resigned his office, in October, 1891, and returned to 
Newcastle. 



1 62 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

animation, about American poets, and especially about 
Richard Henry Stoddard, in whose rare and fine genius 
he manifested a deep, thoughtful, and gratifying inter- 
est. The visitor no longer hears that earnest, formal, 
characteristic recital, descriptive of the house, that was 
given daily and repeatedly, for so many years, by Miss 
Caroline Chattaway, — that delightful allusion to "the 
mighty dome " that was the *' fit place for the mighty 
brain." The Birthplace acquires new treasures from 
year to year, — mainly in its library, which is kept in 
perfect order by Richard Savage, that ideal antiquarian, 
who even collects and retains the bits of the stone floor 
of the Shakespeare room that become detached by age. 
In that library is preserved the original manuscript of 
Wheler's History of Stratford, together with his anno- 
tated and interleaved copy of the printed book, which is 
thus enriched with much new material relative to the 
antiquities of the storied town. 

In the Washington Irving parlour of the Red Horse 
the American traveller will find objects that are specially 
calculated to please his fancy and to deepen his interest 
in the place. Among them are the chair in which 
Irving sat ; the sexton's clock to which he refers in 
the Sketch Book ; an autograph letter by him ; another 
by Longfellow ; a view of Irving's house of Sunnyside ; 
and pictures of Junius Booth, Edwin Booth, the elder 
and the present Jefferson, Miss Mary Anderson, Miss 
Ada Rehan, Elliston, Farren, Salvini, Henry Irving, 
and Miss Ellen Terry. To invest that valued room 
with an atmosphere at once literary and dramatic was 
the intention of its decorator, and this object has been 
attained. When Washington Irving visited Stratford 



X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 1 63 

and lodged at the Red Horse the " pretty chamber- 
maid," to whom he alludes, m his gentle and genial 
account of that experience, was Sally Garner, — then, 
in fact, a middle-aged woman and plain rather than 
pretty. The head waiter was William Webb. Both 
those persons lived to an advanced age. Sally Garner 
was retired, on a pension, by Mr. Gardner, former pro- 
prietor of the Red Horse, and she died at Tanworth 
(not Tamworth, which is another place) and was buried 
there. Webb died at Stratford. He had been a waiter 
at the Red Horse for sixty years, and he was esteemed 
by all who knew him. His grave, in Stratford church- 
yard, remained unmarked, and it is one among the 
many that, unfortunately, were levelled and obliterated 
in 1888, under the rule of the present vicar. A few of 
the older residents of the town might perhaps be able 
to indicate its situation ; but, practically, that relic of 
the past is gone, — and with it has vanished an element 
of valuable interest to the annual multitude of Shake- 
speare pilgrims upon whom the prosperity of Stratford 
is largely dependent, and for whom, if not for the in- 
habitants, every relic of its past should be perpetuated.^ 
This sentiment is not without its practical influence. 
Among other good results of it is the restoration of 
the ancient timber front and the quaint gables of the 
Shakespeare hotel, which, already hallowed by its asso- 
ciation with Garrick and the Jubilee of September 7, 
1769, has now become one of the most picturesque, 
attractive, and representative buildings in Stratford. 

1 The grave of Charles Frederick Green, author of an account of 
Shakespeare and the Crab Tree, — an idle tradition set afloat by Samuel 
Ireland, — was made in the angle near the west door of Trinity church, 
but it has been covered, tombstone and all, with gravel. 



l64 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chaf. 

There is a resolute disposition among Stratford peo- 
ple to save and perpetuate everything that is associated, 
however remotely, with the name of Shakespeare. Mr. 
Charles Frederick Loggin,^ a chemist in the High street, 
possesses a lock and key that were affixed to one of the 
doors in New Place, and also a sundial that reposed 
upon a pedestal in New Place garden, presumably in 
Shakespeare's time. The lock is made of brass ; the 
key of iron, with an ornamented handle, of graceful 
design, but broken. On the lock appears an inscrip- 
tion stating that it was " taken from New Place in the 
year 1759, and preserved by John Lord, Esq." The 
sundial is made of copper, and upon its surface are 
Roman numerals distributed around the outer edge of 
the circle that encloses its rays. The corners of the 
plate are broken, and one side of it is bent. This in- 
jury was done to it by thieves, who wrenched it from 
its setting, on a night in 1759, and were just making 
away with it when they were captured and deprived of 
their plunder. The sundial also bears an inscription, 
certifying that it was preserved by Mr. Lord. New 
Place garden was at one time owned by one of Mr. 
Loggin's relatives, and from that former owner those 
Shakespeare relics were derived. Shakespeare's hand 
may have touched that lock, and Shakespeare's eyes 
may have looked upon that dial, — perhaps on the day 
when he made Jaques draw the immortal picture of 

1 Mr. Loggin was Mayor of Stratford in 1866 and 1867, and under his 
administration, in the latter year, was built the Mill Bridge, across the 
Avon, near Lucy's Mill, to replace an old and dilapidated structure. Mr. 
Loggin died on February 3, 1 885, aged sixty-nine, and was buried at 
Long Marston. 



SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 



165 



Touchstone in the forest, moralising on the flight of 
time and the evanescence of earthly things. \^As Vou 
Like It was written in 1 599-1600.] 

Another remote relic of Shakespeare is the shape 
of the foundation of Bishopton church, which remains 
traced, by ridges of the velvet sod, in a green field a 
little to the northwest of Stratford, in the direction of 
Wilmcote, — the birthplace of Shakespeare's mother, 
Mary Arden. The parish of Bishopton adjoins that 




Anne Hathaway' s Cottage. 



of Shottery, and Bishopton is one of three places that 
have commonly been mentioned in association with 
Shakespeare's marriage with Anne Hathaway. Many 
scholars, indeed, inchne to think that the wedding oc- 
curred there. The church was destroyed about eighty 
years ago. The house in Wilmcote, in which, as tradi- 
tion declares, Mary Arden was born, is seen at the en- 



1 66 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

trance to the village, and is conspicuous for its quaint 
dormer windows and for its mellow colours and impres- 
sive antiquity. Wilmcote is rougher in aspect than 
most of the villages of Warwickshire, and the country 
immediately around it is wild and bleak ; but the hedges 
are full of wildflowers and are haunted by many birds ; 
and the wide, green, lonesome fields, especially when you 
see them in the gloaming, possess that air of melan- 
choly solitude, — vague, dream-like, and poetic rather 
than sad, — which always strongly sways the imagina- 
tive mind. Inside the Mary Arden cottage I saw noth- 
ing remarkable, except the massive old timbers. That 
house as well as the Anne Hathaway cottage at Shot- 
tery, will be purchased and added to the other several 
Trusts, of Shakespeare's Birthplace, the Museum, and 
New Place. ^ The Anne Hathaway cottage needs care, 
and as an authentic relic of Shakespeare and a charm- 
ing bit of rustic antiquity its preservation is important, 
as well to lovers of the poet, all the world over, as to 
the town of Stratford, which thrives by his renown. 
The beautiful Guild chapel also needs care. The hand 
of restoration should, indeed, touch it lightly and rev- 
erently ; but restored it must be, at no distant day, for 
every autumn storm shakes down fragments of its fretted 
masonry and despoils the venerable grandeur of that 
gray tower on which Shakespeare so often gazed from 
the windows of his hallowed home. Whatever is done 
there, fortunately for the Shakespearean world, will be 
done under the direction of a man of noble spirit, rare 
ability, sound scholarship, and fine taste, — the Rev. 

1 The Anne Hathaway cottage was purchased for the nation, in April, 



X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 1 6/ 

R. S. DeCourcy Laffan, head-master of the Grammar 
School and therefore pastor of the Guild. ^ Liberal in 
thought, manly in character, simple, sincere, and full 
of sensibility and goodness, that preacher strongly im- 
presses all who approach him, and is one of the most 
imposing figures in the pulpit of his time. And he is 
a reverent Shakespearean. 

A modern feature of Stratford, interesting to the 
Shakespeare pilgrim, is Lord Ronald Gower's statue of 
the poet, erected in October, 1888, in the Memorial gar- 
den. That work is infelicitous in its site and not fortu- 
nate in all of its details, but in some particulars it is 
fine. Upon a huge pedestal appears the full-length 
bronze figure of Shakespeare, seated in a chair, while 
at the four corners of the base are bronze effigies of 
Hamlet, Lady Macbeth, Henry the Fifth, and Fal- 
staff. Hamlet is the expression of a noble ideal. The 
face and figure are wasted with misery, yet full of 
thought and strength. The type of man thus em- 
bodied will at once be recognised, — an imperial, 
powerful, tender, gracious, but darkly introspective 
nature, broken and subjugated by hopeless grief and 
by vain brooding over the mystery of life and death. 
Lady Macbeth is depicted in her sleep-walking, and, 
although the figure is treated in a conventional manner, 
it conveys the idea of remorse and of physical emacia- 
tion from suffering, and likewise the sense of being 
haunted and accursed. Prince Henry is represented as 
he may have appeared when putting on his dying 
father's kingly crown. The figure is lithe, graceful, 

1 Mr. Laffan resigned his office in June, 1895, ^^"^ became President 
of Cheltenham College. Rev. E. J. W. Houghton is now head-master. 



1 68 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

and spirited ; the pose is true and the action is natural ; 
but the personaUty is deficient of identity and of royal 
distinction. Falstaff appears as a fat man who is a 
type of gross, chuckling humour; so that this image 
might stand for Gambrinus. The intellect and the 
predominant character of Falstaff are not indicated. 
The figures are dwarfed, furthermore, by the size of 
the stone that they surround, — a huge pillar, upon 
which appropriate lines from Shakespeare have been 
inscribed. The statue of Shakespeare shows a man 
of solid self-concentration and adamantine will ; an ob- 
server, of universal view, and incessant vigilance. The 
chief feature of it is the piercing look of the eyes. 
This is a man who sees, ponders, and records. Im- 
agination and sensibility, on the other hand, are not 
suggested. The face lacks modelling : it is as smooth 
as the face of a child ; there is not one characteristic 
curve or wrinkle in all its placid expanse. Perhaps it 
was designed to express an idea of eternal youth. The 
man who had gained Shakespeare's obvious experience 
must have risen to a composure not to be ruffled by 
anything that this world can do, to bless or to ban a 
human life. But the record of his struggle must have 
been written in his face. This may be a fine statue of 
a practical thinker, but it is not the image of a poet 
and it is not an adequate presentment of Shakespeare. 
The structure stands on the south side of the Memorial 
building and within a few feet of it, so that it is almost 
swallowed up by what was intended for its background. 
It would show to better advantage if it were placed fur- 
ther to the south, looking down the long reach of the 
Avon toward Shakespeare's church. The form of the 




THE GOWER STATUE 





1 68 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

and spirited ; the pose is true and the action is natural ; 

but the personaHty is deficient of identity and of royal 

distinction. F'alstaff appears as a fat man who is a 

type of gross, chuckling humour ; so that this image 

might stand for Gambrinus. The intellect and the 

predominant character of Falstaff are not indicated. 

The figures are dwarfed, furthermore, by the size of 

the stone that they surround, — a huge pillar, upon 

-vvhich appropriate lines from Shakespeare have been 

iu^ ■ ' '^'-c statue of Shakespeare shows a man 

:^ -ntration and adamantine will; an ob 

vitL'vv, and incessant vigilance. The 

pi-'vcin^ look of the eyes. 

3UTAT2 ^awoq.^yjand records. Im- 

s.e other hand, are not 

1 he iiti;v lack.-i inodeliing : it is as smooth 

..;v. .....o of a child;. there is not one characteristic 

curve or wrinkle in all its placid expanse. • Perhaps it 
was designed to express an idea of eternal youth. The 
man who had gained Shakespeare's obvious experience 
must have risen to a composure not to be ruffled by 
anything that this world can do, to bless or to ban a 
human life. But the record of his struggle must have 
been written in his face. This may be a fine statue of 
a practical thinker, but it is not the image of a poet 
and it is not an adequate presentment of Shakespeare. 
The structure stands on the south side of the Memorial 
building and within a few feet of it, so that it is almost 
swallowed up by what was intended for its background. 
It would show to better advantage if it were placed fur- 
ther to the south, looking down the long reach of the 
Avon toward Shakespeare's church. The form of the 



X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 1 69 

poet could then be seen from the spot on which he died, 
while his face would still look, as it does now, toward 
his tomb. 

A constant stream of American visitors pours annually 
through the Red Horse. Within three days of July, 
1889, more than a hundred American names appeared 
in the register. The spirit of Washington Irving is 
mighty yet. Looking through a few of the old registers 
of this house, I read many familiar names of distin- 
guished Americans. Bayard Taylor came here on July 
23, 1856; James E. Murdoch, the famous Hamlet and 
Mirabel of other days, on August 31, 1856; Rev. 
Francis Vinton on June 10, 1857; Henry Ward Beecher 
on June 22, 1862; Elihu Burritt, ''the learned black- 
smith," on September 19, 1865 ; George Ripley on May 
12, 1866. Poor Artemas Ward arrived on September 
18, 1866, — only a little while before his death, which 
occurred in March, 1867, at Southampton. The Rev. 
Charles T. Brooks, translator of Fa?ist, registered his 
name here on September 20, 1866. Charles Dudley 
Warner came on May 6, 1868; Mr. and Mrs. W. J. 
Florence on May 29, 1868; and S. R. Gifford and 
Jervis M'Entee on the same day. The poet Long- 
fellow, accompanied by Thomas Appleton, arrived on 
June 23, 1868. Those Red Horse registers contain a 
unique and remarkable collection of autographs. Within 
a few pages, I observed the curiously contrasted signa- 
tures of Cardinal Wiseman, Sam Cowell, the Due 
d'Aumale, Tom Thumb, Miss Burdett-Coutts (1861), 
Blanchard Jerrold, Edmund Yates, Charles Fechter, 
Andrew Carnegie, David Gray (of Buffalo), the Duchess 
of Coburg, Moses H. Grinnell, Lord Leigh, of Stone- 



lyo GRAY Dx\YS AND GOLD chap. 

leigh Abbey, J. M. Bellew, Samuel Longfellow, Charles 
and Henry Webb (the Dromios), Edna Dean Proctor, 
Gerald Massey, Clarence A. Seward, Frederick Mac- 
cabe, M. D. Conway, the Prince of Conde, and John L. 
Toole. That this repository of autographs is appreci- 
ated may be inferred from the fact that special vigilance 
has to be exercised to prevent the hotel registers from 
being carried off or mutilated. The volume containing 
the signature of Washington Irving was stolen years 
ago and it has been vaguely heard of as being in 
America. 

There is a collection of autographs of visitors to the 
Shakespeare Birthplace that was gathered many years 
since by Mary Hornby, custodian of that cottage [it 
was she who whitewashed the walls, in order to obliter- 
ate the writings upon them, when she was removed 
from her office, in 1820], and this is now in the posses- 
sion of her granddaughter, Mrs. Smith, ^ a resident of 
Stratford ; but many valuable names have been taken 
from it, — among others that of Lord Byron. The 
mania for obtaining relics of Stratford antiquity is 
remarkable. Mention is made of an unknown lady 
who came to the birth-room of Shakespeare, and after 
begging in vain for a piece of the woodwork or of the 
stone, presently knelt and wiped the floor with her 
glove, which then she carefully rolled up and secreted, 
declaring that she would, at least, possess some of the 
dust of that sacred chamber. It is a creditable senti- 
ment, though not altogether a rational one, that impels 

1 Mrs. Eliza Smith died at No. 56 Ely street, Stratford, on February 24, 
1893, aged 68, and the relics that she possessed passed to a relative, at 
Northampton. They were sold, in London, in June, 1896. 



SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 



171 



devotional persons to such conduct as that ; but the 
entire Shakespeare cottage would soon disappear if 
such a passion for relics were practically gratified. The 
elemental feeling is one of reverence, and this is per- 
haps indicated in the following lines with which the 
present writer began a new volume of the Red Horse 
register, on July 21, 1889: — 

Shakespeare. 

While evening waits and hearkens, 

While yet the song-bird calls, — 
Before the last light darkens, 

Before the last leaf falls, — 
Once more with reverent feeling 

This sacred shrine I seek. 
By silent awe revealing 

The love I cannot speak. 




CHAPTER XI 



UP AND DOWN THE AVON 




TRATFORD-UPON-AVON, August 22, 
1889. — The river life of Stratford is one 
of the chief delights of this deUghtful 
town. The Avon, according to law, is 
navigable from its mouth, at Tewkesbury, 
where it empties into the Severn, as far upward as War- 
wick ; but according to fact it is passable only to the 
resolute navigator who can surmount obstacles. From 
Tewkesbury up to Evesham there is plain sailing. 
Above Evesham there are occasional barriers. At 
Stratford there is an abrupt pause at Lucy's mill, and 
your boat must be taken ashore, dragged a little way 
over the meadow, and launched again. Lucy's mill is 
just south of the Shakespeare church, and from this 
point up to Clopton's bridge the river is broad. Here 
the boat-races are rowed, almost every year. Here the 
stream ripples against the pleasure-ground called the 
Bancroft, skirts the gardens of the Shakespeare Memo- 
rial, glides past the lovely lawns of Avonbank, — once 
the home of that noble public benefactor and fine Shake- 
spearean scholar, Charles Edward Flower, — and breaks 
upon the retaining wall of the churchyard, crowned 

172 




-T~-^'m 



74 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



with the high and thick-leaved elms that nod and 
whisper over Shakespeare's dust. The town lies on 
the left or west bank of the Avon, as you ascend the 
river looking northward. On the right or east bank 
there is a wide stretch of meadow. To float along here 
in the gloaming, when the bats are winging their '' clois- 



^^^x 



■■^^^ 






J) 



:j. 



^ j^ 




Clapton bridge. 

tered flight," when great flocks of starlings are flying 
rapidly over, when " the crow makes wing to the rooky 
wood," when the water is as smooth as a mirror of 
burnished steel, and equally the grasses and flowers 
upon the banks and the stately trees and the gray, 
solemn, and beautiful church are reflected deep in the 
lucid stream, is an experience of thoughtful pleasure 



XI UP AND DOWN THE AVON 1 75 

that sinks deep into the heart and will never be for- 
gotten. You do not know Stratford till you know the 
Avon. 

From Clopton's bridge upward the river winds capri- 
ciously between banks that are sometimes fringed with 
willows and sometimes bordered with grassy meadows 
or patches of woodland or cultivated lawns, enclosing 
villas that seem the chosen homes of all this world can 
give of loveliness and peace. The course is now entirely 
clear for several miles. Not till you pass the foot of 
Alveston village does any obstacle present itself; but 
there, as well as a little further on, by Hatton Rock, the 
stream runs shallow and the current becomes very swift, 
dashing over sandy banks and great masses of tangled 
grass and weeds. These are ''the rapids," and through 
these the mariner must make his way by adroit steering 
and a vigorous and expert use of oars and boat-hooks. 
The Avon now is bowered by tall trees, and upon the 
height that it skirts you see the house of Ryon Hill, — 
celebrated in the novel of Asphodel, by Miss Braddon. 
This part of the river, closed in from the world and pre- 
senting in each direction twinkling vistas of sun and 
shadow, is especially lovely. Here, in a quiet hour, the 
creatures that live along these shores will freely show 
themselves and their busy ways. The water-rat comes 
out of his hole and nibbles at the reeds or swims stur- 
dily across the stream. The moor-hen flutters out of 
her nest, among the long, green rushes, and skims from 
bank to bank. The nimble little wagtail flashes through 
the foliage. The squirrel leaps among the boughs, and 
the rabbit scampers into the thicket. Sometimes a 
kingfisher, with his shining azure shield, pauses for a 



CHAP. XI UP AND DOWN THE AVON I ^J 

moment among the gnarled roots upon the brink. Some- 
thnes a heron, distm"bed m her nest, rises suddenly upon 
her great wings and soars grandly away. Once, row- 
ing down this river at nearly midnight, I surprised an 
otter and heard the splash of his precipitate retreat. 
The ghost of an old gypsy, who died by suicide upon 
this wooded shore, is said to haunt the neighbouring 
crag; but this, like all other ghosts that ever I came 
near, eluded equally my vision and my desire. But it 
is a weird spot at night. 

Near Alveston mill you must drag your boat over a 
narrow strip of land and launch her again for Charle- 
cote. Now once more this delicious water-way is broad 
and fine. As it sweeps past a stately, secluded home, 
once that of the ancient family of Peers, toward the 
Wellesbourne Road, a great bed of cultivated white 
water-lilies [hitherto they have all been yellow] adorns 
it, and soon there are glimpses of the deer that browse 
or prance or slumber beneath the magnificent oaks and 
elms and limes and chestnuts of Charlecote Park. No 
view of Charlecote can compare with the view of it that 
is obtained from the river ; and if its proprietor values 
its reputation for beauty he ought to be glad that lovers 
of the beautiful sometimes have an opportunity to see 
it from this point. The older wing, with its oriel win- 
dow and quaint belfry, is of a peculiar, mellow red, re- 
lieved against bright green ivy, to which only the brush 
of a painter could do justice. Nothing more delicious, 
in its way, is to be found ; at least, the only piece of 
architecture in this region that excels it in beauty of 
colour is the ancient house of Compton-Wynyate ; but 
that is a marvel of loveliness, the gem of Warwickshire, 

M 



1/8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

and, in romantic quaintness, it surpasses all its fellows. 
The towers of the main building of Charlecote are octa- 
gon, and a happy alternation of thin and slender with 
thick, truncated turrets much enhances the effect of 
quaintness in this grave and opulent edifice. A walled 
terrace, margined with urns and blazing with flowers of 
gold and crimson, extends from the river front to the 
waterside, and terminates in a broad flight of stone 
steps, at the foot of which are moored the barges of the 
house of Lucy. No spectacle could suggest more of 
aristocratic state and austere magnificence than this 
sequestered edifice does, standing there, silent, an- 
tique, venerable, gorgeous, surrounded by its vast, thick- 
wooded park, and musing, as it has done for hundreds 
of years, on the silver Avon that murmurs at its base. 
Close by there is a lovely waterfall, over which some 
little tributary of the river descends in a fivefold wave 
of shimmering crystal, wafting a music that is heard in 
every chamber of the house and in all the fields and 
woodlands round about. It needs the sun to bring out 
the rich colours of Charlecote, but once when I saw it 
from the river a storm was coming on, and vast masses 
of black and smoke-coloured cloud were driving over it, 
in shapeless blocks and jagged streamers, while count- 
less frightened birds were whirling above it ; and pres- 
ently, when the fierce lightning flashed across the 
heavens and a deluge of rain descended and beat upon 
it, a more romantic sight was never seen. 

Above Charlecote the Avon grows narrow for a 
space, and after you pass under Hampton Lucy bridge 
your boat is much entangled in river grass and much 
impeded by whirls and eddies of the shallowing stream. 



UP AND DOWN THE AVON 



179 



There is another mill at Hampton Lucy, and a little 
way beyond the village your further progress upward is 
stopped by a waterfall, — beyond which, however, and 
accessible by the usual expedient of dragging the boat 
over the land, a noble reach of the river is disclosed, 
stretching away toward Warwick, where the wonderful 




The Abbey Milh, Teivkesbury. 



Castle, and sweet St. Mary's tower, and Leicester's hos- 
pital, and the cosy Warwick Arms await your coming, 
— with mouldering Kenilworth and majestic Stoneleigh 
Abbey reserved to lure you still further afield. But the 
scene around Hampton Lucy is not one to be quickly 



l8o GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xi 

left. There the meadows are rich and green and fra- 
grant. There the large trees give grateful shade and 
make sweet music in the summer wind. There, from 
the ruddy village, thin spires of blue smoke curl upward 
through the leaves and seem to tell of comfort and con- 
tent beneath. At a little distance the gray tower of the 
noble church, — an edifice of peculiar and distinctive 
majesty, and one well worthy of the exceptional beauty 
enshrined within it, — rears itself among the elms. Close 
by the sleek and indolent cattle are couched upon the 
cool sod, looking at you with large, soft, lustrous, indif- 
ferent eyes. The waterfall sings on, with its low melan- 
choly plaint, while sometimes the silver foam of it is 
caught up and whirled away by the breeze. The waves 
sparkle on the running stream, and the wildflowers, in 
gay myriads, glance and glimmer on the velvet shore. 
And so, as the sun is setting and the rooks begin to fly 
homeward, you breathe the fragrant air from Scarbank 
and look upon a veritable place that Shakespeare may 
have had in mind when he wrote his line of endless 
melody — 

" I know a bank where the wild thyme blows." ^ 

1 Modern editions, following Pope's alteration, say " whereon " instead 
of "where"; but "where" is the reading in the Folio of 1623. Mr. 
Savage contends that the bank that Shakespeare had in mind is Borden 
Hill, near Shottery, where the wild thyme is still abundant. 



CHAPTER XII 



RAMBLES IN ARDEN 




TRATFORD-UPON-AVON, August 27, 
1889. — Among the many charming ram- 
bles that may be enjoyed in the vicinity of 
Stratford, the ramble to Wootton-Wawen 
and Henley-in-Arden is not least de- 
lightful. Both those places are on the Birmingham 
road ; the former six miles, the latter eight miles, from 
Stratford. When you stand upon the bridge at Woot- 
ton you are only one hundred miles from London, but 
you might be in a wilderness a thousand miles from any 
city, for in all the slumberous scene around you there 
is no hint of anything but solitude and peace. Close 
by a cataract tumbles over the rocks and fills the air 
with music. Not far distant rises the stately front of 
Wootton Hall, an old manor-house, surrounded with 
green lawns and bowered by majestic elms, which has 
always been a Roman Catholic abode, and which is 
never leased to any but Roman Catholic tenants. A 
cosy, gabled house, standing among trees and shrubs a 
little way from the roadside, is the residence of the 
priest of this hamlet, — an antiquarian and a scholar, 
of ample acquirements and fine talent. Across the 



1 82 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

meadows, in one direction, peers forth a fine specimen 
of the timbered cottage of ancient times, — the black 
beams conspicuous upon a white surface of plaster. 
Among the trees, in another direction, appears the 
great gray tower of Wootton-Wawen church, a ven- 
erable pile and one in which, by means of the varying 
orders of its architecture, you may, perhaps, trace the 
whole ecclesiastical history of England. The approach 
to that church is through a green lane and a wicket- 
gate, and when you come near to it you find that it is 
surrounded with many graves, some marked and some 
unmarked, on all of which the long grass waves in rank 
luxuriance and whispers softly in the summer breeze. 
The place seems deserted. Not a human creature is 
anywhere visible, and the only sound that breaks the 
stillness of this August afternoon is the cawing of a 
few rooks in the lofty tops of the neighbouring elms. 
The actual life of all places, when you come to know it 
well, proves to be, for the most part, conventional, com- 
monplace, and petty. Human beings, with here and 
there an exception, are dull and tedious, each resem- 
bling the other, and each needlessly laborious to in- 
crease that resemblance. In this respect all parts of 
the world are alike, — and therefore the happiest 
traveller is he who keeps mostly alone, and uses his 
eyes, and communes with his own thoughts. The 
actual life of Wootton is, doubtless, much like that of 
other hamlets, — a "noiseless tenor" of church squab- 
bles, village gossip, and discontented grumbling, diver- 
sified with feeding and drinking, lawn tennis, matrimony, 
birth, and death. But as I looked around upon this 
group of nestling cottages, these broad meadows, green 



WOOTTON-WAWEN CHURCH 




GKAY DAYS AND GOLD cha: 

::ivc-.-; ■-> ^ ,\ ■•... .. , . ^^ ...v. ., , j,>v..:-.- loFtli a finc speciiTicn 
• ^f the timbered cottage of ancient times, — the black 
nspicuous upon a white surface of plaster. 
.. iiie trees, in another direction, appears the 
gray tower of Wootton-Wawen church, a ven- 
erable pile and one in which, by means of the varying 
■ of its architecture, you may, perhaps, trace the 
ecclesiastical history of England. The approach 
I ) ['>^A' hurch is through a green lane and a wickel- 
•:ratt\ a you come near to it you find that it is 

^unc- - .'.h many graves, some marked and some 

unmarked, on all of which the long grass waves in rank 
luxuriance :irtii uhisp t^ softly m the summer breeze. 
The place seeni«^3sSwj«aii€fewAW^tHD'nr(lQ»rnan creature is 
.mywhere va.sible, and the only sound that breaks the 
stillness of this August afternoon is the cawing of a 
few rooks in the lofty tops of the neighbouring elms. 
The actual life of all places, when you come to know it 
\\\':]. p' '^ es to be, for the most part, conventional, com- 
monplace. ' tty. Human beings, with here and 
ther'e an ^ a, are dull and tedious, each resem- 

bling the other, and each needlessly laborious to in- 
crease that resemblance. In this respect all parts of 
the world are alike, — and therefore the happiest 
traveller is he who keeps mostly alone, and uses his 
eyes, and communes with his own thoughts. The 
actual life of Wootton is, doubtless, much like that of 
other hamlets, — a "noiseless tenor" of church squab- 
bles, village gossip, and discontented grumbling, diver- 
sified with feeding and drinking, lawn tennis, matrimony, 
birth, and death. But as I looked around upon this 
group of nestling cottages, these broad meadows, green 



XII RAMBLES IN ARDEN 1 83 

and cool in the shadow of the densely mantled trees, 
and this ancient church, gray and faded with antiquity, 
slowly crumbling to pieces amid the fresh and everlast- 
ing vitality of nature, I felt that surely here might at 
last be discovered a permanent haven of refuge from 
the incessant platitude and triviality of ordinary experi- 
ence and the strife and din of the world. 

Wootton-Wawen church is one of the numerous 
Roman Catholic buildings of about the eleventh cen- 
tury that still survive in this realm, devoted now to 
Protestant worship. It has been partly restored, but 
most of it is in a state of decay, and if this be not 
soon arrested the building will become a ruin. Its 
present vicar, the Rev. Francis T. Bramston, is making 
vigorous efforts to interest the public in the preservation 
of this ancient monument, and those efforts ought to 
succeed. A more valuable ecclesiastical relic it would 
be difficult to find, even in this rich region of antique 
treasures, the heart of England. Its sequestered situa- 
tion and its sweetly rural surroundings invest it with 
peculiar beauty. It is associated, furthermore, with 
names that are stately in English history and honoured 
in English literature, — with Henry St. John, Viscount 
Bolingbroke, whose sister reposes in its ancient vaults, 
and with William Somerville [1692- 1742], the poet 
who wrote TJie Chase. It was not until I actually stood 
upon his tombstone that my attention was directed to 
the name of that old author, and to the presence of his 
relics in this remote and lonely place. Somerville lived 
and died at Edston Hall, near Wootton-Wawen, and was 
famous in his day as a Warwickshire squire and hunts- 
man. His grave is in the chancel of the church, the 



1 84 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

following excellent epitaph, written by himself, being 
inscribed upon the plain blue stone that covers it : — 

H. s. E. 

OBIIT 17. JULY. 1742. 

GULIELMUS SOMERVILE. ARM. 

SI QUID IN ME BONI COMPERTUM 

HABEAS, 

IMITATE. 
SI QUID MALI, TOTIS VIRIBUS 
EVITA. 

CHRISTO CONFIDE, 
ET SCIAS TE QUOQUE FRAGILEM 
ESSE 

ET MORTALEM. 

Such words have a meaning that sinks deep into the 
heart when they are read upon the gravestone that covers 
the poet's dust. They came to me like a message from 
an old friend who had long been waiting for the oppor- 
tunity of this solemn greeting and wise counsel. Another 
epitaph written by Somerville, — - and one that shows 
equally the kindness of his heart and the quaintness of 
his character, — appears upon a little, low, lichen-covered 
stone in Wootton-Wawen churchyard, where it commem- 
orates his huntsman and butler, Jacob Bocter, who was 
hurt in the hunting-field, and died of this accident: — 

H. s. E. 

JACOBUS BOCTER. 

GULIELMO SOMERVILE ARMIGRO 

PROMUS ET CANIBUS VENATICIS 

PRAEPOSITOR 

DOMI. FORISQUE FIDELIS 

EQUO INTER VENANDUM CORUENTE 

ET INTESTINIS GRAVITER COLLISIS 

POST TRIDUUM DEPLORANDUS. 

OBIIT 

28 DIE JAN., 

ANNO DNI 1 719, 

AETAT 38. 



XII RAMBLES IN ARDEN 1 85 

The pilgrim who rambles as far as Wootton-Wawen 
will surely stroll onward to Henley-in-Arden. The whole 
of that region was originally covered by the Forest of 
Arden^ — the woods that Shakespeare had in mind 
when he was writing As Vo?i Like It, a comedy whereof 
the atmosphere, foliage, flowers, scenery, and spirit are 
purely those of his native Warwickshire. Henley, if 
the observer may judge by the numerous inns that 
fringe its long, straggling, picturesque street, must once 
have been a favourite halting-place for the coaches that 
plied between London and Birmingham. They are 
mostly disused now, and the little town sleeps in the 
sun and seems forgotten. ^ There is a beautiful speci- 
men of the ancient market-cross in its centre, — gray 
and sombre and much frayed by the tooth of time. 
Close beside Henley, and accessible in a walk of a few 
minutes, is the church of Beaudesert, which is one of 
the most precious of the ecclesiastic gems of England. 
Here you will see architecture of mingled Saxon and 
Norman, — the solid Norman buttress, the castellated 
tower, the Saxon arch moulded in zigzag, which is 
more ancient than the dog-tooth, and the round, com- 
pact columns of the early English order. Above the 
church rises a noble mound, upon which, in the middle 
ages, stood a castle, — probably that of Peter de Mont- 
fort, — and from which a comprehensive and superb view 
may be obtained, over many miles of verdant meadow 
and bosky dell, interspersed with red-roofed villages from 

1 That learned antiquarian W. G. Fretton, Esq., of Coventry, has shown 
that the Forest of Arden covered a large tract of land extending many 
miles west and north of the bank of the Avon, around Stratford. 

2 It has been awakened. A railway to Henley was opened in 1894. 



i86 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



which the smoke of the cottage chimneys curls up in thin 
blue spirals under the gray and golden sunset sky. An 
old graveyard encircles the church, and by its orderly 
disorder, — the quaint, graceful work of capricious time, 
— enhances the charm of its venerable and storied age. 

There are only one hundred 
and forty-six persons in the 
parish of Beaudesert. I was 
privileged to speak with the 
^ _ aged rector, the 

Rev. John An- 
thony Pearson 
Linskill, and to 
view the church 
under his kind- 
ly guidance. In 
the ordinary 
course of nat- 
ure it is un- 
likely that we 
shall ever meet 
again, but his 
goodness, his 
benevolent 
mind, and the 
charm of his 
artless talk will 
not be forgot- 
ten.^ My walk 

1 The venerable Mr. Linskill died in the rectory of Beaudesert in Feb- 
ruary, 1890, and was buried within the shadow of the church that he loved. 
That picturesque rectory of Beaudesert was the birthplace of Richard Jago 
[17 1 5-1 781], the poet who wrote Edgehill. 












Beaudesert Cross. 



RAMBLES IN ARDEN 



87 



that night took me miles away, — to Claverdon, and home 
by Bearley ; and all the time it was my thought that the 
best moments of our lives are those in which we are 
touched, chastened, and ennobled by parting and by 
regret. Nothing is said so often as good-by. But, in 
the lovely words of Cowper, 

"The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown." 





CHAPTER XIII 



THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN 




MERICAN interest in Stratford-upon- 
Avon springs out of a love for the 
works of Shakespeare as profound and 
passionate as that of the most sensitive 
and reverent of the poet's countrymen. 
It was the father of American Htera- 
ture, Washington Irving, who in modern times made 
the first pilgrimage to that holy land, and set the 
good example, which since has been followed by thou- 
sands, of worship at the shrine of Shakespeare. It 
was an American, the alert and expeditious P. T. Bar- 
num, who by suddenly proposing to buy the Shake- 
speare cottage and transfer it to America startled the 
English into buying it for the nation. It is, in part, to 
Americans that Stratford owes the Shakespeare Memo- 
rial ; for while the land on which it stands was given by 
that public-spirited citizen of Stratford, Charles Edward 
Flower, — a sound and reverent Shakespeare scholar, 
as his acting edition of the plays may testify, — and 
while money to pay for the building of it was freely con- 
tributed by wealthy residents of Warwickshire, and by 



CHAP. XIII 



THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN 189 



men of all ranks throughout the kmgdom, the gifts and 
labours of Americans were not lacking to that good 
cause. Edwin Booth was one of the earliest contribu- 
tors to the Memorial fund, and the names of Mr. Her- 
man Vezin, Mr. M. D. Conway, Mr. W. H. Reynolds, 
Mrs. Bateman, and Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton 
appear in the first list of its subscribers. Miss Kate 
Field worked for its advancement, with remarkable 
energy and practical success. Miss Mary Anderson 
acted for its benefit, on August 29, 1885. In the church 
of the Holy Trinity, where Shakespeare's dust is buried, 
a beautiful stained window, illustrative, scripturally, of 
that solemn epitome of human life which the poet makes 
in the speech of Jaques on the seven ages of man, 
evinces the practical devotion of the American pilgrim ; 
and many a heart has been thrilled with reverent joy to 
see the soft light that streams through its pictured panes 
fall gently on the poet's grave. 

Wherever in Stratford you come upon anything asso- 
ciated, even remotely, with the name and fame of 
Shakespeare, there you will find the gracious tokens of 
American homage. The libraries of the Birthplace and 
of the Memorial alike contain gifts of American books. 
New Place and Anne Hathaway's cottage are never 
omitted from the American traveller's round of visita- 
tions and duty of practical tribute. The Falcon, with 
its store of relics ; the romantic Shakespeare Hotel, 
with its rambling passages, its quaint rooms named 
after Shakespeare's characters, its antique bar parlour, 
and the rich collection of autographs and pictures that 
has been made by Mrs. Justins ; the Grammar School, 
in which no doubt the poet, 'Svith shining morning 



IQO 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



face" of boyhood, was once a pupil; John Marshall's 
antiquarian workshop, from which so many of the best 
souvenirs of Stratford have proceeded, — a warm re- 
membrance of his own quaintness, kindness, and origi- 
nality being perhaps the most precious of them ; the 
Town Hall, adorned with Gainsborough's eloquent por- 
trait of Garrick, to which no engraving does justice ; the 
Guild chapel; the Clopton bridge; Lucy's mill; the 
footpath across fields and roads to Shottery, bosomed in 
great elms ; and the ancient picturesque building, four 
miles away, at Wilmcote, which was the home of Mary 
Arden, Shakespeare's mother, — each and every one of 
those storied places receives, in turn, the tribute of the 
wandering American, and each repays him a hundred- 
fold in charming suggestiveness of association, in high 
thought, and in the lasting impulse of sweet and sooth- 
ing poetic reverie. At the Red Horse, where Mr. 
William Gardner Colbourne maintains the traditions of 
old-fashioned English hospitality, he finds his home ; 
well pleased to muse and dream in Washington Irving's 
parlour, while the night deepens and the clock in the 
distant tower murmurs drowsily in its sleep. Those 
who will may mock at his enthusiasm. He would not 
feel it but for the spell that Shakespeare's genius has 
cast upon the world. He ought to be glad and grate- 
ful that he can feel that spell ; and, since he does feel 
it, nothing could be more natural than his desire to 
signify that he too, though born far away from the old 
home of his race, and separated from it by three thou- 
sand miles of stormy ocean, has still his part in the 
divine legacy of Shakespeare, the treasure and the 
glory of the English tongue. 



THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN 



191 



A noble token of this American sentiment, and a 
permanent object of interest to the pilgrim in Strat- 
ford, is supplied by the Jubilee gift of a drinking- 
fountain made to that city by George W. Childs of 
Philadelphia. It never is a surprise to hear of some 
new instance of that good man's constant activity and 
splendid generosity in 
good works; it is only 
an accustomed pleas- 
ure.^ With fine-art testi- 
monials in the old world 
as well as at home his 
name will always be hon- 
ourably associated. A 
few years ago he pre- 
sented a superb window 
of stained glass to West- 
minster Abbey, to com 
memorate, in Poets' Cor- 
ner, George Herbert and 
V/illiam Cowper. He 
has since given to St. 
Margaret's church, 
Westminster, where John Skelton and Sir James Har- 
rington [1611-1677] were entombed, and where was 
buried the headless body of Sir Walter Raleigh, a pic- 
torial window commemorative of John Milton. His 
fountain at Stratford was dedicated on October 17, 1887, 
with appropriate ceremonies conducted by Sir Arthur 
Hodgson, of Clopton, then mayor, and amid general 

1 Like many other pleasures it has now become only a memory. Mr. 
Childs died, in Philadelphia, February 3, 1894. 




Henry Irv'mg. 



192 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

rejoicing. Henry Irving, the leader of the EngUsh 
stage and the most iUustrious of English actors since 
the age of Garrick, delivered an address of singular 
felicity and eloquence, and also read a poem by Oliver 
Wendell Holmes. The countrymen of Mr. Childs are 
not less interested in this structure than the community 
that it was intended to honour and benefit. They ob- 
serve with satisfaction and pride that he has made this 
beneficent, beautiful, and opulent offering to a town 
which, for all of them, is hallowed by exalted associa- 
tions, and for many of them is endeared by delightful 
memories. They sympathise also with the motive and 
feeling that prompted him to offer his gift as one 
among many memorials of the fiftieth year of the 
reign of Queen Victoria. It is not every man who 
knows how to give with grace, and the good deed is 
"done double" that is done at the right time. Strat- 
ford had long been in need of such a fountain as Mr. 
Childs has given, and therefore it satisfies a public 
want, at the same time that it serves a purpose of 
ornamentation and bespeaks and strengthens a bond 
of international sympathy. Rother street, in which 
the structure stands, is the most considerable open 
place in Stratford, and is situated near the centre of 
the town, on the west side. There, as also at the in- 
tersection of High and Bridge streets, which are the 
principal thoroughfares of the city, the farmers, at 
stated intervals, range their beasts and wagons and 
hold a market. It is easy to foresee that Rother, em- 
bellished with this monument, which combines a con- 
venient clock tower, a place of rest and refreshment for 
man, and commodious drinking-troughs for horses, cat- 



XIII THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN 1 93 

tie, dogs, and sheep, will soon become the agricultural 
centre of the region. 

The base of the monument is made of Peterhead 
granite ; the superstructure is of gray stone, from 
Bolton, Yorkshire. The height of the tower is fifty 
feet. On the north side a stream of water, flowing 
constantly from a bronze spout, falls into a polished 
granite basin. On the south side a door opens into 
the interior. The decorations include sculptures of 
the arms of Great Britain alternated with the eagle 
and stripes of the American republic. In the second 
story of the tower, lighted by glazed arches, is placed a 
clock, and on the outward faces of the third story ap- 
pear four dials. There are four turrets surrounding 
a central spire, each surmounted with a gilded vane. 
The inscriptions on the base were devised by Sir 
Arthur Hodgson, and are these : 

I 

The gift of an American citizen, George W. Childs, of Philadelphia, 

to the town of Shakespeare, in the Jubilee year 

of Queen Victoria. 



In her days every man shall eat, in safety 
Under his own vine, what he plants ; and sing 
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. 
God shall be truly known : and those about her 
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, 
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. 

Henry VIIL, Act v. Scene 4. 

Ill 
Honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire. 

Ti?non of Athens, Act i. Scene 2. 

N 



194 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

IV 

Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who has thus 
gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions. — Was/mig- 
ton Irving' s Stratford-07i-Avon. 

Stratford-upon-Avon, fortunate in many things, is 
especially fortunate in being situated at a considerable 
distance from the main line of any railway. Two rail- 
roads skirt the town, but both are branches, and travel 
upon them has not yet become too frequent. Stratford, 
therefore, still retains a measure of its ancient isolation, 
and consequently a flavour of quaintness. Antique cus- 
toms are still prevalent there, and odd characters may 
still be encountered. The current of village gossip flows 
with incessant vigour, and nothing happens in the place 
that is not thoroughly discussed by its inhabitants. An 
event so important as the establishment of the Ameri- 
can Fountain would excite great interest throughout 
Warwickshire. It would be pleasant to hear the talk 
of those old cronies who drift into the bar parlour of 
the Red Horse on a Saturday evening, as they com- 
ment on the liberal American who has thus enriched 
and beautified their town. The Red Horse circle is 
but one of many in which the name of Childs is 
spoken with esteem and cherished with affection. The 
present writer has made many visits to Stratford and has 
passed much time there, and he has observed on many 
occasions "he admiration and gratitude of the Warwick- 
shire people for the American philanthropist. In the li- 
brary of Charles Edward Flower, at Avonbank; in the 
opulent mansion of Edgar Flower, at the Hill ; in the 
lovely home of Alderman Bird ; at the hospitable table 




THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN 




194 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



IV 



Ten tlionsand honours and blessings on the bard who has thv 
gilded the dull realities of life with, innocent illusions. — Washing- 
ton Irvine's Stratfo7'd-on-Avon. 

Stratford-upon-Avon, fortunate in many things, is 
especially fortunate in being situated at a considerable 
distance from the main line of any railway. Two rail- 
roads skirt the town, but both are branches, and travel 
upon them has not yet become too frequent. Stratford, 
therefore, still retains a measure of its ancient isolation, 
and consequently a flavour of quaintness. Antique cus- 
toms are * " vaient there, and odd characters may 
still be eii' i'hvi r.!irrent of village gossip flows 

with incessant v;«iATJiu€i'=i. o^o^TAHT^irBpiirens in the place 
that is not thoroughly discusbcd !^y us inhabitants. An 
event so important as the establishment of the Ameri- 
can Fountain would excite great interest throughout 
Warwickshire. It would be pleasant to hear the talk 
of those old cronies who drift into. the bar parlour of 
the Red Horse on a Saturday evening, as they com- 
ment on the liberal American who has thus enriched 
and beautified their town. The Red Horse circle is 
but one of many in which the name of Childs is 
spoken with esteem and cherished with affection. The 
present writer has made many visits to Stratford and has 
passed much time there, and he has observed on many 
occasions he admiration and gratitude of the Warwick- 
shire people for the American philanthropist. In the li- 
orary of Charles Edward Flower, at Avonbank ; in the 

nalent mansion of Edgar Flower, at the Hill; in the 
;..\'ely home of Alderman Bird; at the hospitable table 



XIII THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN 1 95 

of Sir Arthur Hodgson, in Clopton ; and in many other 
representative places he has heard that name spoken, 
and always with delight and honour. Time will only 
deepen and widen the loving respect with which it is 
hallowed. In England, more than anywhere else on 
earth, the record of good deeds is made permanent, not 
alone with imperishable symbols, but in the hearts of 
the people. The inhabitants of Warwickshire, guard- 
ing and maintaining their Stratford Fountain, will not 
forget by whom it was given. Wherever you go, in the 
British islands, you find memorials of the past and of 
individuals who have done good deeds in their time, and 
you also find that those memorials are respected and 
preserved. Warwickshire abounds with them. Many 
such emblems might be indicated. Each one of them 
takes its place in the regard and gradually becomes en- 
twined with the experience of the whole community. 
So it will be with the Childs Fountain at Stratford. 
The children trooping home from school will drink of 
it and sport in its shadow, and, reading upon its base 
the name of its founder, will think with pleasure of a 
good man's gift. It stands in the track of travel be- 
tween Banbury, Shipston, Stratford, and Birmingham, 
and many weary men and horses will pause beside it 
every day, for a moment of refreshment and rest. On 
festival days it will be hung with garlands, while around 
it the air is glad with music. And often in the long, 
sweet gloaming of the summertimes to come the rower 
on the limpid Avon, that murmurs by the ancient town 
of Shakespeare, will pause with suspended oar to hear 
its silver chimes. If the founder of that fountain had 
been capable of a selfish thought he could have taken 



96 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



no way better or more certain than this for the per- 
petuation of his name in the affectionate esteem of 
one of the loveliest places and one of the most sedate 
communities in the world. 

Autumn in England — and all the country ways of 
lovely Warwickshire are strewn with fallen leaves. 
But the cool winds are sweet and bracing, the dark 
waters of the Avon, shimmering in mellow sunlight 










-ilP^---;; 



Mary A/den's Cottage. 

and frequent shadow, flow softly past the hallowed 
church, and the reaped and gleaned and empty mead- 
ows invite to many a healthful ramble, far and wide 
over the country of Shakespeare. It is a good time 
to be there. Now will the robust pedestrian make his 
jaunt to Charlecote Park and Hampton Lucy, to Stone- 
leigh Abbey, to Warwick and Kenilworth, to Guy's 
Cliff, with its weird avenue of semi-blasted trees, to the 



THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN 



197 



Blacklow Hill, — where sometimes at still midnight the 
shuddering peasant hears the ghostly funeral bell of 
Sir Piers Gaveston sounding ruefully from out the 
black and gloomy woods, — and to many another his- 
toric haunt and high poetic shrine. All the country- 
side is full of storied resorts and cosey nooks and com- 
fortable inns. But neither now nor hereafter will it 
be otherwise than grateful and touching to such an 
explorer of haunted Warwickshire to see, among the 
emblems of poetry and romance which are its chief 
glory, this new token of American sentiment and friend- 
ship, the Fountain of Stratford. 





CHAPTER XIV 



BOSWORTH FIELD 




ARWICK, August 29, 1889. — It has long 
been the conviction of the present writer 
that the character of King Richard the 
Third has been distorted and mahgned 
by the old historians from whose author- 
ity the accepted view of it is derived. He 
was, it is certain, a superb soldier, a wise statesman, a 
judicious legislator, a natural ruler of men, and a prince 
most accomplished in music and the fine arts and in 
the graces of social life. Some of the best laws that 
ever were enacted in England were enacted during h*is 
reign. His title to the throne of England was abso- 
lutely clear, as against the Earl of Richmond, and but 
for the treachery of some among his followers he would 
have prevailed in the contest upon Bosworth Field, and 
would have vindicated and maintained that title over all 
opposition. He lost the battle, and he was too great 
a man to survive the ruin of his fortunes. He threw 
away his life in the last mad charge upon Richmond 
that day, and when once the grave had closed over 
him, and his usurping cousin had seized the English 



CHAP. XIV BOSWORTH FIELD 1 99 

crown, it naturally must have become the easy as well 
as the politic business of history to blacken his char- 
acter. England was never ruled by a more severe 
monarch than the austere, crafty, avaricious Henry the 
Seventh, and it is certain that no word in praise of his 
predecessor could have been publicly said in England 
during Henry's reign : neither would it have been 
wholly safe for anybody to speak for Richard and the 
House of York, in the time of Henry the Eighth, the 
cruel Mary, or the illustrious Elizabeth. The drift, in 
fact, was all the other way. The Life of Richard the 
Third, by Sir Thomas More, is the fountain-head of the 
other narratives of his career, and there can be no 
doubt that More, who as a youth had lived at Canter- 
bury, in the palace of Archbishop Morton, derived his 
views of Richard from that prelate, — to whose hand 
indeed, the essential part of the Life has been attrib- 
uted. " Morton is fled to Richmond." He was Bishop 
of Ely when he deserted the king, and Henry the 
Seventh rewarded him by making him Archbishop of 
Canterbury. No man of the time was so little likely 
as Morton to take an unprejudiced view of Richard the 
Third. It is the Morton view that has become history. 
The world still looks at Richard through the eyes of 
his victorious foe. Moreover, the Morton view has 
been stamped indelibly upon the imagination and the 
credulity of mankind by the overwhelming and irresisti- 
ble genius of Shakespeare, who wrote Richard the 
Third in the reign of the granddaughter of Henry the 
Seventh, and who, aside from the safeguard of dis- 
cretion, saw dramatic possibilities in the man of dark 
passions and deeds that he could not have seen in a 



200 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD ' chap. 

more human and a more virtuous monarch. Goodness 
is generally monotonous. ** The low sun makes the 
colour." It is not to be supposed that Richard was a 
model man ; but there are good reasons for thinking 
that he was not so black as his enemies painted him ; 
and, good or bad, he is one of the most fascinating 
personalities that history and literature have made 
immortal. It was with no common emotion, therefore, 
that I stood upon the summit of Ambien Hill and 
looked downward over the plain where Richard fought 
his last fight and went gloriously to his death. 

The battle of Bosworth Field was fought on August 
22, 1485. More than four hundred years have passed 
since then : yet except for the incursions of a canal and 
a railway the aspect of that plain is but little changed 
from what it was when Richard surveyed it, on that 
gray and sombre morning when he beheld the forces of 
Richmond advancing past the marsh and knew that the 
crisis of his life had come. The earl was pressing for- 
ward that day from Tamworth and Atherstone, which 
are in the northern part of Warwickshire, — the latter 
being close upon the Leicestershire border. His course 
was a little to the southeast, and Richard's forces, facing 
northwesterly, confronted their enemies from the summit 
of a long and gently sloping hill that extends for several 
miles, about east and west, from Market Bosworth on 
the right, to the vicinity of Dadlington on the left. The 
king's position had been chosen with an excellent judg- 
ment that has more than once, in modern times, elicited 
the admiration of accomplished soldiers. His right 
wing, commanded by Lord Stanley, rested on Bosworth. 
His left was protected by a marsh, impassable to the 



BOSWORTH FIl 



200 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

more human and a more virtuous monarch. Goodness 
is generally monotonous. *' The low sun makes the 
colour." It is not to be supposed that Richard was a 
model man ; but there are good reasons for thinking 
that he was not so black as his enemies painted him ; 
and, good or bad, he is one of the most fascinating 
personalities that history and literature have made 
immortal. It was with no common emotion, therefore, 
that I stood upon the summit of Ambien Hill and 
looked downward over the plain where Richard fought 
his last fi<^ht and went gloriously to his death. 

The battle of Bosworth Field was fought on August 
22, 1485 More than lour hundred years have passed 
since then : yet except for the incursions of a canal and 
a railway the aspect oF tha^ pPan?°fs but little changed 
from what it was when Richard surveyed it, on that 
gray and sombre morning when he beheld the forces of 
Richmond advancing past the marsh and knew that the 
crisis of hi^ : cume, The earl was pressing for- 

ward that c:.. . ., .;; Tamworth and Atherstone, which 
are in the northern part of Warwickshire, — the latter 
being close upon the Leicestershire border. His course 
was a little to the southeast, and Richard's forces, facing 
northwesterly, confronted their enemies from the summit 
of a long and gently sloping hill that extends for several 
miles, about east and west, from Market Bosworth on 
the right, to the vicinity of Dadlington on the left. The 
king's position had been chosen with an excellent judg- 
ment that has more than once, in modern times, ehcited 
the admiration of accomplished soldiers. His right 
wing, commanded by Lord Stanley, rested on Bosworth. 
His left was protected by a marsh, impassable to the 



XIV BOSWORTH FIELD 20I 

foe. Sir William Stanley commanded the left and had 
his headquarters in Dadlington. Richard rode in the 
centre. Far to the right he saw the clustered houses 
and the graceful spire of Bosworth, and far to the left 
his glance rested on the little church of Dadlington. Be- 
low and in front of him all was open field, and all across 
that field waved the banners and sounded the trumpets 
of rebellion and defiance. It is easy to imagine the 
glowing emotions, — the implacable resentment, the 
passionate fury, and the deadly purpose of slaughter 
and vengeance, — with which the imperious and terrible 
monarch gazed on his approaching foes. They show, 
in a meadow, a little way over the crest of the hill, where 
it is marked and partly covered now by a pyramidal struct- 
ure of gray stones, suitably inscribed with a few com- 
memorative lines in Latin, a spring of water at which 
Richard paused to quench his thirst, before he made 
that last desperate charge on Radmore heath, when at 
length he knew himself betrayed and abandoned, and 
felt that his only hope lay in killing the Earl of Rich- 
mond with his own hand. The fight at Bosworth was 
not a long one. Both the Stanleys deserted the king's 
standard early in the day. It was easy for them, posted 
as they were, to wheel their forces into the rear of the 
rebel army, at the right and at the left. Nothing then 
remained for Richard but to rush down upon the centre, 
where he saw the banner of Richmond, — borne, at that 
moment, by Sir John Cheyney, — and to crush the treason 
at its head. It must have been a charge of tremendous 
impetuosity. It bore the fiery king a long way forward 
on the level plain. He struck down Cheyney, a man of 
almost gigantic stature. He killed Sir William Brandon. 



202 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

He plainly saw the Earl of Richmond, and came almost 
near enough to encounter him, when a score of swords 
were buried in his body, and, hacked almost into pieces, 
he fell beneath heaps of the slain. The place of his 
death is now the junction of three country roads, one 
leading northwest to Shenton, one southwest to Dadling- 
ton, and one bearing away easterly toward Bosworth. 
A little brook, called Sandy Ford, flows underneath the 
road, and there is a considerable coppice in the field at 
the junction. Upon the peaceful sign-board appear the 
names of Dadlington and Hinckley. Not more than five 
hundred feet distant, to the eastward, rises the embank- 
ment of a branch of the Midland Railway, from Nunea- 
ton to Leicester, while at about the same distance to the 
westward rises the similar embankment of a canal. No 
monument has been erected to mark the spot where 
Richard the Third was slain. They took up his mangled 
body, threw it across a horse, and carried it into the town 
of Leicester, and there it was buried, in the church of the 
Gray Friars, — also the sepulchre of Cardinal Wolsey, — 
now a ruin. The only commemorative mark upon the 
battlefield is the pyramid at the well, and that stands 
at a long distance from the place of the king's fall. I 
tried to picture the scene of his final charge and his 
frightful death, as I stood there upon the hillside. Many 
little slate-coloured clouds were drifting across a pale 
blue sky. A cool summer breeze was sighing in the 
branches of the neighbouring trees. The bright green 
sod was all alive with the sparkling yellow of the colt's- 
foot and the soft red of the clover. Birds were whist- 
ling from the coppice near by, and overhead the air was 
flecked with innumerable black pinions of fugitive rooks 



XIV BOSWORTH FIELD 203 

and starlings. It did not seem possible that a sound of 
war or a deed of violence could ever have intruded to 
break the Sabbath stillness of that scene of peace. 

The water of King Richard's Well is a shallow pool, 
choked now with moss and weeds. The inscription, 
which was written by Dr. Samuel Parr, of Hatton, reads 
as follows : 

AQVA. EX. HOC PVTEO. HAVSTA 

SITIM. SEDAVIT. 

RICHARDVS. TERTIVS. REX. ANGLIAE 

CVM HENRICO. COMITE DE RICHMONDIA 

ACERRIME. ATQVE. INGENTISSIME. PRAELIANS 

ET. VITA. PARITER. AC. SCEPTRO 

ANTE NOCTEM. CARITVRUS 

II KAL. SEP. A.D. M.C.C.C.C.LXXXV. 

There are five churches in the immediate neighbour- 
hood of Bosworth Field, all of which were in one way 
or another associated with that memorable battle. Rat- 
cliffe Culey church has a low square tower and a short 
stone spire, and there is herbage growing upon its tower 
and its roof. It is a building of the fourteenth century, 
one mark of this period being its perpendicular stone 
font, an octagon in shape, and much frayed by time. 
In three arches of its chancel, on the south side, the 
sculpture shows tri-foliated forms, of exceptional beauty. 
In the east window there are fragments of old glass, 
rich in colour and quaint and singular. The church- 
yard is full of odd gravestones, various in shape and 
irregular in position. An ugly slate-stone is much used 
in Leicestershire for monuments to the dead. Most of 
those stones record modern burials, the older graves 
being unmarked. The grass grows thick and dense all 
over the churchyard. Upon the church walls are sev- 



204 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD CHAP. 

eral fine specimens of those mysterious ray and circle 
marks which have long been a puzzle to the archaeo- 
logical explorer. Such marks are usually found in the 
last bay but one, on the south side of the nave, toward 
the west end of the church. On Ratcliffe Culey church 
they consist of central points with radial lines, like a 
star, but these are not enclosed, as often happens, with 
circle lines. Various theories have been advanced by 
antiquarians to account for these designs. Probably 
those marks were cut upon the churches, by the pious 
monks of old, as emblems of eternity and of the Sun 
of Righteousness. 

Shenton Hall (1629), long and still the seat of the 
Woollastons, stood directly in the path of the comba- 
tants at Bosworth Field, and the fury of the battle must 
have raged all around it. The Hall has been recased, 
and, except for its old gatehouse and semi-octagon bays, 
which are of the Tudor style, it presents a modern as- 
pect. Its windows open toward Radmore heath and 
Ambien Hill, the scene of the conflict between the Red 
Rose and the White. The church has been entirely re- 
built, — a handsome edifice, of crucial form, containing 
costly pews of old oak, together with interesting brasses 
and busts, taken from the old church which it has re- 
placed. The brasses commemorate Richard Coate and 
Joyce his wife, and Richard Everard and his wife, and 
are dated 1556, 1597, and 1616. The busts are of white 
marble, dated 1666, and are commemorative of William 
Woollaston and his wife, once lord and lady of the manor 
of Shenton. It was the rule, in building churches, that 
one end should face to the east and the other to the 
west, but you frequently find an old church that is set 



XIV BOSWORTH FIELD 205 

at a slightly different angle, — that, namely, at which 
the sun arose on the birthday of the saint to whom the 
church was dedicated. The style of large east and west 
windows, with trefoil or other ornamentation in the heads 
of the arches, came into vogue about the time of Edward 
the First. 

Dadlington was Richard's extreme left on the day of 
the battle, and Bosworth was his extreme right. These 
positions were intrusted to the Stanleys, both of whom 
betrayed their king. Sir William Stanley's headquarters 
were at Dadlington, and traces of the earthworks then 
thrown up there, by Richard's command, are still visible. 
Dadlington church has almost crumbled to pieces, and 
it is to be restored. It is a diminutive structure, with a 
wooden tower, stuccoed walls, and a tiled roof, and it 
stands in a graveyard full of scattered mounds and 
slate-stone monuments. It was built in Norman times, 
and although still used it has long been little better 
than a ruin. One of the bells in its tower is marked 
*' Thomas Arnold fecit, 1763," — but this is compara- 
tively a modern touch. The church contains two pointed 
arches, and across its roof are five massive oak beams, 
almost black with age. The plaster ceiling has fallen, 
in several places, so that patches of laths are visible in 
the roof. The pews are square, box-like structures, 
made of oak and very old. The altar is a plain oak 
table, supported on carved legs, covered with a cloth. 
On the west wall appears a tablet, inscribed '' Thomas 
Eames, church-warden, 1773." Many human skeletons, 
arranged in regular tiers, were found in Dadlington 
churchyard, when a much-beloved clergyman, the Rev. 
Mr. Bourne, was buried, in 1881 ; and it is believed that 



2o6 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

those are remains of men who fell at Bosworth Field. 
The only inn at this lonely place bears the quaint name 
of The Dog and Hedgehog. 

The following queer epitaph appears upon a grave- 
stone in Dadlington churchyard. It is Thomas Bolland, 
1765, who thus expresses his mind, in mortuary remi- 
niscence : 

" I lov'd my Honoured Parents dear, 
I lov'd my Wife's and Children dear, 
And hope in Heaven to meet them there. 
I lov'd my Brothers & Sisters too, 
And hope I shall them in Heaven view. 
I lov'd my Vncle's, Aunt's, & Cousin's too 
And I pray God to give my children grace the same to do." 

Stoke Golding church was built in the fourteenth 
century. It stands now, a gray and melancholy relic 
of other days, strange and forlorn yet august and 
stately, in a little brick village, the streets of which 
are paved, like those of a city, with blocks of stone. 
It is regarded as one of the best specimens extant of 
the decorative style of early English ecclesiastical 
architecture. It has a fine tower and spire, and it con- 
sists of nave, chantry, and south aisle. There is a 
perforated parapet on one side, but not on the other. 
The walls of the nave and the chancel are continuous. 
The pinnacles, though decayed, show that they must 
have been beautifully carved. One of the decorative 
pieces upon one of them is a rabbit with his ears laid 
back. Lichen and grass are growing on the tower and 
on the walls. The roof is of oak, the mouldings of the 
arches are exceptionally graceful, and the capitals of the 
five main columns present, in marked diversity, carvings 



XIV 



BOSWORTH FIELD 



207 



of faces, flowers, and leaves. The tomb of the founder is 
on the north side, and the stone pavement is everywhere 
lettered w^ith inscriptions of burial. There is a fine 
mural brass, bearing the name of Brokesley, 1633, and 
a superb ''stocke chest," 1636; and there is a sculptured 
font, of exquisite symmetry. Some of the carving upon 
the oak roof is more grotesque than decorative, — but 
this is true of most other carving to be found in ancient 
churches ; such, for example, as you may see under 
the miserere seats in the chancel of Trinity at Strat- 



11,1' ' 'h 



■"11^ 




Higham-07i-the-Hill. 

ford-upon-Avon. There was formerly some beautiful 
old stained glass in the east window of Stoke Golding 
church, but this has disappeared. A picturesque stone 
slab, set upon the church wall outside^ arrests attention 
by its pleasing shape, its venerable aspect, and its de- 
cayed lettering ; the date is 1684. Many persons slain 
at Bosworth Field were buried in Stoke Golding church- 
yard, and over their nameless graves the long grass is 
waving, in indolent luxuriance and golden light. So 



208 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAI'. XIV 



Nature hides waste and forgets pain. Near to this 
village is Crown Hill, where the crown of England 
was taken from a hawthorn bush, whereon it had been 
cast, in the frenzied confusion of defeat, after the battle 
of Bosworth was over and the star of King Richard had 
been quenched in death. Crown Hill is a green meadow 
now, without distinguishing feature, except that two 
large trees, each having a double trunk, are growing in 
the middle of it. Not distant from this historic spot 
stands Higham-on-the-Hill, where there is a fine church, 
remarkable for its Norman tower. From this village 
the view is magnificent, — embracing all that section of 
Leicestershire which is thus haunted with memories of 
King Richard and of the carnage that marked the final 
conflict of the white and red roses. 




#9^2^ 



CHAPTER XV 

THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 

ICHFIELD, Staffordshire, July 31, 1890. 
— To a man of letters there is no name in 
the long annals of English literature more 
interesting and significant than the name 
of Samuel Johnson. It has been truly 
said that no other man was ever subjected to such a 
light as Boswell threw upon Johnson, and that few other 
men could have endured it so well. He was in many 
ways noble, but of all men of letters he is especially 
noble as the champion of literature. He vindicated the 
profession of letters. He lived by his pen, and he 
taught the great world, once for all, that it is honour- 
able so to live. That lesson was needed in the England 
of his period; and from that period onward the literary 
vocation has steadily been held in higher esteem than it 
enjoyed up to that time. The reader will not be sur- 
prised that one of the humblest of his followers should 
linger for a while in the ancient town that is glorified by 
association with his illustrious name, or should write a 
word of fealty and homage in the birthplace of Dr. 
Johnson. 

o 209 



2IO 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



Lichfield is a cluster of rather dingy streets and of 
red-brick and stucco buildings, lying in a vale, a little 

northward from 
Birmingham, diver- 
sified by a couple 
of artificial lakes 
and glorified by 
one of the love- 
liest churches in 
Europe. Without 
its church the town 
would be nothing. 
Lichfield cathedral, although 
an ancient structure, — dating 
back, indeed, to the early part 
of the twelfth century, — has 
been so sorely battered, and 
so considerably ''restored," that 
it presents the aspect of a build- 
ing almost modern. The de- 
notements of antiquity, how- 
ever, are not entirely absent 
_^- from it, and it is not less 
venerable than majestic. 
No one of the cathedrals 
of England presents a 
more beautiful front. The 
multitudinous statues of 
Dr. Johnson. saints and kings that are 

upon it create an impression of royal opulence. The 
carving upon the recesses of the great doorways 
on the north and west is of astonishing variety and 




XV 



THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 



211 



loveliness. The massive doors of dark oak, fretted with 
ironwork of rare delicacy, are impressive and are excep- 
tionally suitable for such an edifice. Seven of the large 
gothic windows in the chancel are filled with genuine 
old glass, — not, indeed, the glass they originally con- 
tained, for that was smashed by the Puritan fanatics, but 
a great quantity [no less f \ than at least 

three hundred and forty j, [ pieces, each 




Lichfield Cathedral— West Front. 



about twenty-two inches square], made in Germany, in 
the early part of the sixteenth century, when the art 
of staining glass was at its summit of skill. This 
treasure was given to the cathedral by a Hberal friend, 
Sir Brooke Boothby, who had obtained it by purchase, 
in 1802, from the dissolved Abbey of Herckenrode. 



212 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD ciiAr. 

No such colour as that old glass presents can be seen 
in the glass that is manufactured now. It is imitated 
indeed, but it does not last. The subjects portrayed 
in those sumptuous windows are mostly scriptural, but 
the centre window on the north side of the chancel 
is devoted to portraits of noblemen, one of them being 
Errard de la Marck, who was enthroned Bishop of Liege 
in 1505, and who, toward the end of his stormy life, 
adopted the old Roman motto, comprehensive and 
final, which, a little garbled, appears in the glass be- 
neath his heraldic arms : 

" Decipimus votis ; et tempore fallimur ; 
Et Mors deridet curas ; anxia vita nihil." 

The father of the illustrious Joseph Addison was 
Dean of Lichfield from 1.688 to 1703, and his remains 
are buried in the ground, near the west door of the 
church. The stately Latin epitaph was written by his 
son. This and several other epitaphs here attract the in- 
terested attention of literary students. A tablet on the 
north wall, in the porch, commemorates the courage and 
sagacity of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who intro- 
duced into England the practice of inoculation for the 
small-pox. Anna Seward, the poet, who died in 1809, 
aged sixty-six, and who was one of the friends of Dr. 
Johnson, was buried and is commemorated here, and 
the fact that she placed a tablet here, in memory of her 
father, is celebrated in sixteen eloquent and felicitous 
lines by Sir Walter Scott. The father was a canon of 
Lichfield, and died in 1790. The reader of Boswell 
will not fail to remark the epitaph on Gilbert Walmes- 
ley, once registrar of the ecclesiastical court of Lichfield, 



THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 



213 



and one of Dr. Johnson's especial friends. Of Chappel 
Woodhouse it is significantly said, upon his memorial 
stone, that he was *' lamented most by those who knew 
him best." Here the pilgrim sees two of the best 
works of Sir Francis Chantrey, — one called The Sleep- 
ing Children, erected 



in 18 1 7, in memory of 
two young daughters 
of the Rev. William 
Robinson ; the other 
a kneeling figure of 
Bishop Ryder, who 
died in 1836. The for- 
mer was one of the 
earliest triumphs of 
Chantrey, — an exqui- 
site semblance of inno- 
cence and heavenly 
purity,^ — and the lat- 
ter was his last. Near 
by is placed one of the 
most sumptuous mon- 
uments in England, a 
recumbent statue, done 
by the master-hand of 







Lichfield Cathedral— West Front, Central 
Doorivay. 



Watts, the painter, representing Bishop Lonsdale, who 
died in 1867. This figure, in which the modelling is very 
beautiful and expressive, rests upon a bed of marble and 
alabaster. In Chantrey's statue of Bishop Ryder, which 

1 Chantrey had seen the beautiful sculpture of little Penelope Boothby, 
in Ashbourne church, Derbyshire, made by Thomas Banks, and he may 
have been inspired by that spectacle. 



214 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

seems no effigy but indeed the living man, there is 
marvellous perfection of drapery, — the marble having 
the effect of flowing silk. Here also, in the south 
transept, is the urn of the Gastrells, formerly of Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon, to whom was due the destruction 
[1759] of the house of New Place in which Shake- 
speare died. No mention of the Rev. Gastrell occurs 
in the epitaph, but copious eulogium is lavished on 
his widow, both in verse and prose, and she must in- 
deed have been a good woman, if the line is true which 
describes her as "A friend to want when each false 
friend withdrew." Her chief title to remembrance, 
however, like that of her husband, is an unhallowed 
association with one of the most sacred of literary 
shrines. In 1776 Johnson, accompanied by Boswell, 
visited Lichfield, and Boswell records that they dined 
with Mrs. Gastrell and her sister Mrs. Aston. The 
Rev. Gastrell was then dead. " I was not in- 
formed till afterward," says Boswell, "that Mrs. Gas- 
trell's husband was the clergyman who, while he lived 
at Stratford-upon-Avon, with Gothic barbarity cut down 
Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, and as Dr. Johnson told 
me, did it to vex his neighbours. His lady, I have 
reason to believe, on the same authority, participated 
in the guilt of what the enthusiasts of our immortal 
bard deem almost a species of sacrilege." The de- 
struction of the house followed close upon that of the 
tree, and to both their deaths the lady was doubtless 
accessory. 

Upon the ledge of a casement on the east side of the 
chancel, separated by the central lancet of a threefold 
window, stand the marble busts of Samuel Johnson and 



XV THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 215 

David Garrick. Side by side they went through Hf e ; 
side by side their ashes repose in the great abbey at 
Westminster ; and side by side they are commemorated 
here. Both the busts were made by Westmacott, and 
obviously each is a portrait. The head of Johnson 
appears without his customary wig. The colossal indi- 
viduality of the man plainly declares itself, in form and 
pose, in every line of the eloquent face, and in the 
superb dignity of the figure and the action. This work 
was based on a cast taken after death, and this undoubt- 
edly is Johnson's self. The head is massive yet grace- 
ful, denoting a compact brain and great natural 
refinement of intellect. The brow is indicative of 
uncommon sweetness. The eyes are finely shaped. 
The nose is prominent, long, and slightly aquiline, with 
wide and sensitive nostrils. The mouth is large, and 
the lips are slightly parted, as if in speech. Prodigious 
perceptive faculties are shown in the sculpture of the 
forehead, — a feature that is characteristic, in even a 
greater degree, of the bust of Garrick. The total 
expression of the countenance is benignant, yet troubled 
and rueful. It is a thoughtful and venerable face, and 
yet it is the passionate face of a man who has passed 
through many storms of self-conflict and been much 
ravaged by spiritual pain. The face of Garrick, on the 
contrary, is eager, animated, triumphant, happy, show- 
ing a nature of absolute simplicity, a sanguine tempera- 
ment, and a mind that tempests may have ruffled but 
never convulsed. Garrick kept his *' storm and stress" 
for his tragic performances ; there was no particle of it 
in his personal experience. It was good to see those 
old friends thus associated in the beautiful church that 



2l6 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

they knew and loved in the sweet days when their 
friendship had just begun and their labours and their 
honours were all before them. I placed myself where, 
during the service, I could look upon both the busts at 
once ; and presently, in the deathlike silence, after the 
last response of evensong had died away, I could well 
believe that those familiar figures were kneeling beside 
me, as so often they must have knelt beneath this glori- 
ous and venerable roof : and for one worshipper the 
beams of the westering sun, that made a solemn splen- 
dour through the church, illumined visions no mortal 
eyes could see. 

Beneath the bust of Johnson, upon a stone slab 
affixed to the wall, appears this inscription : 

The friends of SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D., a native of Lich- 
field, erected this monument as a tribute of respect to the memory 
of a man of extensive learning, a distinguished moral writer and a 
sincere Christian. He died the 13th of December, 1784, aged 75 
years. 

A similar stone beneath the bust of Garrick is in- 
scribed as follows : 

Eva Maria, relict of DAVID GARRICK. Esq., caused this monu- 
ment to be erected to the memory of her beloved husband, who 
died the 20th of January 1779, ^g^d 63 years. He had not only the 
amiable qualities of private life, but such astonishing dramatick 
talents as too well verified the observation of his friend : " His 
death eclipsed the gayety of nations and impoverished the publick 
stock of harmless pleasure." 

This *' observation " is the well-known eulogium of 
Johnson, who, however much he may have growled 
about Garrick, always loved him and deeply mourned 
for him. These memorials of an author and an actor 



THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 



217 



are not rendered the more impressive by being sur- 
mounted, as at present they are, in Lichfield cathedral, 
with old battle-flags, — commemorative souvenirs of the 
80th Regiment, Staffordshire volunteers, — honourable 
, J and interesting relics in their 




place, but inappropriate to the ef- 
figies of Johnson and Garrick. 






'(('] V ' ' 1 1 11 ''^'^-^^^^^^^r=i^^''^^^^^^^^iMWm'' 



House in which Jo his on zvas borji. 

The house in which Johnson was born stands at the 
corner of Market street and Breadmarket street, facing 
the little market-place of Lichfield. It is an antiquated 
building, three stories in height, having a long, peaked 
roof. The lower story is recessed, so that the entrance 
is sheltered by a pent. Its two doors, — for the struct- 



2i8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

ure now consists of two tenements, — are approached 
by low stone steps, guarded by an iron rail. There are 
ten windows, five in each row, in the front of the upper 
stories. The pent-roof is supported by three sturdy 
pillars. The house has a front of stucco. A bill in one 
of the lower windows certifies that now [1890], this 
house is *'To Let." Here old Michael Johnson kept 
his bookshop, in the days of good Queen Anne, and 
from this door young Samuel Johnson went forth to 
his school and his play. The whole various, pathetic, 
impressive story of his long, laborious, sturdy, benefi- 
cent life drifts through your mind as you stand at that 
threshold and conjure up the pictures of the past. 
Opposite to the house, and facing it, is the statue of 
Johnson, presented to Lichfield in 1838 by James 
Thomas Law, then Chancellor of the diocese. On the 
sides of its massive pedestal are sculptures, showing 
first the boy, borne on his father's shoulders, listening 
to the preaching of Dr. Sacheverell ; then the youth, 
victorious in school, carried aloft in triumph by his 
admiring comrades ; and, finally, the renowned scholar 
and author, in the meridian of his greatness, standing 
bareheaded in the market-place of Uttoxeter, doing pen- 
ance for his undutiful refusal, when a lad, to relieve his 
weary, infirm father, in the work of tending the book- 
stall at that place. Every one knows that touching 
story, and no one who thinks of it when standing here 
will gaze with any feeling but that of reverence, com- 
mingled with the wish to lead a true and simple life, 
upon the noble, thoughtful face and figure of the great 
moralist, who now seems to look down with benediction 
upon the scenes of his innocent and happy youth. The 



XV THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 219 

statue, which is in striking contrast with the humble 
birthplace, points the expressive moral of a splendid 
career. No tablet has yet been placed on the house in 
which Johnson was born. Perhaps it is not needed. 
Yet surely this place, if any place on earth, ought to be 
preserved and protected as a literary shrine.^ Johnson 
was not a great creative poet ; neither a Shakespeare, a 
Dryden, a Byron, nor a Tennyson ; but he was one of 
the most massive and majestic characters in English 
literature. A superb example of self-conquest and 
moral supremacy, a mine of extensive and diversified 
learning, an intellect remarkable for deep penetration 
and broad and generally sure grasp of the greatest sub- 
jects, he exerted, as few men have ever exerted, the 
original, elemental force of genius ; and his immortal 
legacy to his fellow-men was an abiding influence for 
good. The world is better and happier because of him, 
and because of the many earnest characters and honest 
lives that his example has inspired ; and this cradle of 
greatness ought to be saved and marked for every suc- 
ceeding generation as long as time endures. 

One of the interesting features of Lichfield is an 
inscription that vividly recalls the ancient strife of 
Roundhead and Cavalier, two centuries and a half ago. 
This is found upon a stone scutcheon, set in the wall 
over the door of the house that is No. 24 Dam street, 
and these are its words: "March 2d, 1643, Lord 
Brooke, a General of the Parliament Forces preparing 
to Besiege the Close of Lichfield, then garrisoned For 

1 1896. The building is, if" possible, to be made a museum of relics of 
Johnson. It is now a lodging-house. Its exterior has recently been re- 
paired. Johnson is the name of its present owner. 




The Spires of Lichfield. 



CHAP. XV THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 221 

King Charles the First, Received his deathwound on 
the spot Beneath this Inscription, By a shot in the 
forehead from Mr. Dyott, a gentleman who had placed 
himself on the Battlements of the great steeple, to 
annoy the Besiegers." One of them he must have 
" annoyed " seriously. It was " a long shot, Sir Lu- 
cius," for, standing on the place of that catastrophe 
and looking up to ''the battlements of the great 
steeple," it seemed to have covered a distance of nearly 
four hundred feet. Other relics of those Roundhead 
wars were shown in the cathedral, in an ancient room 
now used for the bishop's consistory court, — these 
being two cannon-balls (fourteen-pounders), and the 
ragged and dusty fragments of a shell, that were dug 
out of the ground near the church a few years ago. 
Many of these practical tokens of Puritan zeal have 
been discovered. Lichfield cathedral close, in the time 
of Bishop Walter de Langton, who died in 1321, was 
surrounded with a wall and fosse, and thereafter, when- 
ever the wars came, it was used as a fortification. In 
the Stuart times it was often besieged. Sir John Cell 
succeeded Lord Brooke, when the latter had been shot 
by Mr. Dyott, — who is said to have been "deaf and 
dumb," but who certainly was not blind. The close 
was surrendered on March 5, 1643, and thereupon the 
Parliamentary victors, according to their ruthless and 
brutal custom, straightway ravaged the church, tearing 
the brasses from the tombs, breaking the effigies, and 
utterly despoiling beauty which it had taken genera- 
tions of pious zeal and loving devotion to create. The 
great spire was battered down by those vandals, and 
in falling it wrecked the chapter-house. The noble 



222 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xv 

church, indeed, was made a ruin, and so it remained till 
1 66 1, when its munificent benefactor, Bishop Hackett, 
began its restoration, now happily almost complete. 
Prince Rupert captured Lichfield close, for the king, in 
April, 1643, and General Lothian recovered it for the 
Parliament, in the summer of 1646, after which time 
it was completely dismantled. Charles the First came 
to this place after the fatal battle of Naseby, and sad 
enough that picturesque, vacillating, shortsighted, bea- 
tific aristocrat must have been, gazing over the green 
fields of Lichfield, to know, — as surely even he must 
then have known, — that his cause was doomed, if not 
entirely lost. 

It will not take you long to traverse Lichfield, and 
you may ramble all around it through little green lanes 
between hedgerows. This you will do if you are wise, 
for the walk, especially at evening, is peaceful and 
lovely. The wanderer never gets far away from the 
cathedral. Those three superb spires steadily dominate 
the scene, and each new view of them seems fairer than 
the last. All around this little city the fields are 
richly green, and many trees diversify the prospect. 
Pausing to rest awhile in the mouldering graveyard of 
old St. Chad's, I saw the rooks flocking homeward to 
the great tree-tops not far away, and heard their many 
querulous, sagacious, humorous croakings, while over 
the distance, borne upon the mild and fragrant evening 
breeze, floated the solemn note of a warning bell from 
the minster tower, as the shadows deepened and the 
night came down. Scenes like this sink deep into the 
heart, and memory keeps them forever. 




CHAPTER XVI 



FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH 












to-night. 



DINBURGH, September 9, 1889. — Scot- 
land again, and never more beautiful 
than now ! The harvest moon is shining 
upon the grim old castle, and the bag- 
pipes are playing under my windows 
It has been a lovely day. The train rolled 
out of King's Cross, London, at ten this morning, and 
it rolled into Waverley, Edinburgh, about seven to-night. 
The trip by the Great Northern railway is one of the 
most interesting journeys that can be made in England. 
At first indeed the scenery is not striking ; but even at 
first you are whirled past spots of exceptional historic 
and literary interest, — among them the battlefield of 
Barnet, the ancient and glorious abbey of St. Albans, 
and the old church and graveyard of Hornsey where 
Thomas Moore buried his little daughter Barbara, and 
where the venerable poet Samuel Rogers sleeps the 
last sleep. Soon these are gone, and presently, dash- 
ing through a flat country, you get a clear view of 

223 



224 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chai". 

Peterborough cathedral, massive, dark, and splendid, 
with its graceful cone-shaped pinnacles, its vast square 
central tower, and the three great pointed and recessed 
arches that adorn its west front. That church contains 
the dust of Queen Catherine, the Spanish wife of Henry 
the Eighth, who died at Kimbolton Castle, Huntingdon- 
shire, in 1535 ; and there, in 1587, the remains of Mary 
Stuart were first buried, — resting there a long time be- 
fore her son, James the First, conveyed them to West- 
minster Abbey. Both those queens were buried by the 
same gravedigger, — that famous sexton, old Scarlett, 
whose portrait is in the cathedral, and who died July 2, 
1 591, aged ninety-eight. 

The country is so level that the receding tower of 
Peterborough remains for a long time in sight, but soon, 
— as the train speeds through pastures of clover and 
through fields of green and red and yellow herbage, 
divided by glimmering hedges and diversified with red- 
roofed villages and gray church towers, — the land grows 
hilly, and long white roads are visible, stretching away 
like bands of silver over the lonely hill-tops. Figures 
of gleaners are seen, now and then, scattered through 
fields whence the harvest has lately been gathered. 
Sheep are feeding in the pastures, and cattle are couched 
under fringes of wood. The bright emerald of the sod 
sparkles with the golden yellow of the colt's-foot, and 
sometimes the scarlet waves of the poppy come tum- 
bling into the plain, like a cataract of fire. Windmills 
spread their whirling sails upon the summits round 
about, and over the nestling ivy-clad cottages and over 
the stately trees there are great flights of rooks. A 
gray sky broods above, faintly suffused with sunshine. 




PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD cha 

Peterborough cathedral, massive, dark, and splendid, 
with its graceful cone-shaped pinnacles, its vast squar 
central tower, and the three great pointed and recessed 
arches that adorn its west front. That church contains 
the dust of Queen Catherine, the Spanish wife of Hem \ 
the Eighth, who died at Kimbolton Castle, Huntingdon 
shire, in 1535 ; and there, in 1587, the remains of Marv 
Stuart were first buried, — resting there a long time be- 
fore her son, James the First, conveyed them to West 
minster Abbey. Both those queens were buried by the 
same gravedigger, — that famous sexton, old Scarlett, 
whose portrait is in the cathedral, and who died July 2, 
1 591, aged ninety-cigh^ 

The country is so .it the receding tower of 

Peterborough rfMm^;^'^iki^6ek^^^4^ sight, but soon, 
— as the train speeds through pastures of clover and 
through fields of green and red and yellow herbage, 
divided by glimmering hedges and diversified w^ith red- 
roofed villages and gray church towers, — the land grows 
hilly, and long white roads are visible, stretching away 
like bands of silver over the lonely hill-tops. Figures 
of gleaners are seen, now and then, scattered through 
fields whence the harvest has lately been gathered. 
Sheep are feeding in the pastures, and cattle are couched 
under fringes of wood. The bright emerald of the sod 
sparkles with the golden yellow of the colt's-foot, ami 
sometimes the scarlet waves of the poppy come turn 
bling into the plain, like a cataract of fire. Windmills 
spread their whirling sails upon the summits roun>.i 
?.bnnt, and over the nestling ivy-clad cottages and ovc- 

ately trees there are great flights of rooks 
^/:iy sky broods above, faintly suffused with sunsnin. 



XVI FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH 22 5 

but there is no glare and no heat, and often the wind 
is laden with a fragrance of wildflowers and of hay. 
It is noon at Grantham, where there is just time 
enough to see that this is a flourishing city of red- 
brick houses and fine spacious streets, with a lofty, 
spired church, and far away eastward a high line of 
hills. Historic Newark is presently reached and passed, 

— a busy, contented town, smiling through the sunshine 
and mist, and as it fades in the distance I remember 
that we are leaving Lincoln, with its glorious cathedral, 
to the southeast, and to the west Newstead Abbey, 
Annesley, Southwell, and Hucknall-Torkard, — places 
memorably associated with the poet Byron and dear 
to the heart of every lover of poetic literature. At 
Markham the country is exceedingly pretty, with woods 
and hills over which multitudes of rooks and starlings 
are in full career, dark, rapid, and garrulous. About 
Bawtry the land is flat, and flat it continues to be until 
we have sped a considerable way beyond York. But 
in the meantime we flash through opulent Doncaster, 
famed for manufactories and for horse-races, rosy and 
active amid the bright green fields. There are not 
many trees in this region, and as we draw near Selby, 

— a large red-brick city, upon the banks of a broad 
river, — its massive old church tower looms conspicu- 
ous under smoky skies. In the outskirts of this town 
there are cosy houses clad with ivy, in which the pilgrim 
might well be pleased to linger. But there is no pause, 
and in a little while magnificent York bursts upon the 
view, stately and glorious, under a black sky that is full 
of driving clouds. The minster stands out like a moun- 
tain, and the giant towers rear themselves in solemn 

p 



226 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

majesty, — the grandest piece of church architecture in 
England ! The brimming Ouse shines as if it were a 
stream of liquid ebony. The meadows around the city 
glow like living emeralds, while the harvest-fields are 
stored and teeming with stacks of golden grain. Great 
flights of startled doves people the air, — as white as 
snow under the sable fleeces of the driving storm. I 
had seen York under different guises, but never before 
under a sky at once so sombre and so romantic. 

We bear toward Thirsk now, leaving behind us, 
westward of our track, old Ripon, in the distance, 
memorable for many associations, — especially the 
contiguity of that loveliest of ecclesiastical ruins, Foun- 
tains Abbey, — and cherished in theatrical annals as 
the place of the death and burial of the distinguished 
founder of the Jefferson family of actors.^ Bleak 
Haworth is not far distant, and remembrance of it 
prompts many sympathetic thoughts of the strange 
genius of Charlotte Bronte. Darlington is the next 
important place, a town of manufacture, conspicuous for 
its tall, smoking chimneys and evidently prosperous. 
This is the land of stone walls and stone cottages, — 
the grim precinct of Durham. The country is culti- 
vated, but rougher than the Midlands, and the essen- 
tially diversified character of this small island is once 
again impressed upon your mind. All through this 
region there are little white-walled houses with red 
roofs. At Ferry Hill the scenery changes again and 
becomes American, — a mass of rocky gorges and 

1 Thomas Jefferson, 1 728-1807, was a contemporary and friend of Gar- 
rick, and a member of his company, at various times, at Drury Lane. He 
was the great-grandfather of Joseph Jefferson, famous in Rip Van Winkle. 



XVI FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH 22/ 

densely wooded ravines. All trace of storm has van- 
ished by this time, and when, after a brief interval 
of eager expectation, the noble towers of Durham 
cathedral sweep into the prospect, that superb monu- 
ment of ancient devotion, together with all the dark 
gray shapes of that pictorial city, — so magnificently 
placed, in an abrupt precipitous gorge, on both sides 
of the brimming Weir, — are seen under a sky of 
the softest Italian blue, dappled with white clouds of 
drifting fleece. Durham is all too quickly passed, — 
fading away in a landscape sweetly mellowed by a 
faint blue mist. Then stately rural mansions appear, 
half hidden among great trees. Wreaths of smoke curl 
upward from scattered dwellings all around the circle 
of the hills. Each distant summit is seen to be crowned 
with a tower or a town. A fine castle springs into view 
just before Birtley glances by, and we see that this is a 
place of woodlands, piquant with a little of the rough- 
ness of unsophisticated nature. But the scene changes 
suddenly, as in a theatre, and almost in a moment the 
broad and teeming Tyne blazes beneath the scorching 
summer sun, and the gray houses of Gateshead and 
Newcastle fill the picture with life and motion. The 
waves glance and sparkle, — a wide plain of shimmer- 
ing silver. The stream is alive with shipping. There 
is movement everywhere, and smoke and industry and 
traffic, — and doubtless noise, though we are on a height 
and cannot hear it. A busier scene could not be found 
in all this land, nor one more strikingly representative 
of the industrial character and interests of England. 

After leaving Newcastle we glide past a gentle, wind- 
ing ravine, thickly wooded on both its sides, with a bright 



228 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



stream glancing in its depth. The meadows all around 
are green, fresh, and smiling, and soon our road skirts 
beautiful Morpeth, bestriding a dark and lovely river 
and crouched in a bosky dell. At Widdrington the land 
shelves downward, the trees become sparse, and you 
catch a faint glimpse of the sea, — the broad blue wil- 
derness of the Northern Ocean. From this point 
onward the panorama is one of perfect and unbroken 



iff^nyj^wr 




~r=^.; 



Berwick Castle. 



loveliness. Around you are spacious meadows of fern, 
diversified with clumps of fir-trees, and the sweet wind 
that blows upon your face seems glad and buoyant with 
its exultant vitality. At Warkworth Castle, once the 
home of the noble Hotspur, the ocean view is especially 
magnificent, — the brown and red sails of the ships and 
various craft descried at sea contributing to the prospect 
a lovely element of picturesque character. Alnwick, 
with its storied associations of '' the Percy out of Nor- 



XVI FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH 229 

thumberland," is left to the westward, while on the east 
the romantic village of Alnmouth woos the traveller 
with an irresistible charm. No one who has once seen 
that exquisite place can ever be content without seeing 
it again, — and yet there is no greater wisdom in the 
conduct of life than to avoid forever a second sight of 
any spot where you have once been happy. This vil- 
lage, with its little lighthouse and graceful steeple, is 
built upon a promontory in the sea, and is approached 
over the sands by a long, isolated road across a bridge 
of four fine arches. All the country-side in this region 
is rich. At Long Houghton a grand church uprears 
its vast square tower, lonely and solemn in its place of 
graves. Royal Berwick comes next, stately and serene 
upon its ocean crag, with the white-crested waves curl- 
ing on its beach and the glad waters of the Tweed kiss- 
ing the fringes of its sovereign mantle, as they rush into 
the sea. The sun is sinking now, and over the many- 
coloured meadows, red and brown and golden and green, 
the long, thin shadows of the trees slope eastward and 
softly hint the death of day. The sweet breeze of even- 
ing stirs the long grasses, and on many a gray stone 
house shakes the late pink and yellow roses and makes 
the ivy tremble. It is Scotland now, and as we pass 
through the storied Border we keep the ocean almost 
constantly in view, — losing it for a little while at Dun- 
bar, but finding it again at Drem, — till, past the battle- 
field of Prestonpans, and past the quaint villages of 
Cockenzie and Musselburgh and the villas of Portobello, 
we come slowly to a pause in the shadow of Arthur's 
Seat, where the great lion crouches over the glorious 
city of Edinburgh. 




CHAPTER XVII 



INTO THE HIGHLANDS 




OCH AWE, September 14, 1889. — Under 
a soft gray sky and through fields that still 
are slumbering in the early morning mist, 
the train rolls out of Edinburgh, bound for 
the north. The wind blows gently ; the 
air is cool ; strips of thin, fleecy cloud are driving over 
the distant hill-tops, and the birds are flying low. The 
track is by Queensferry, and in that region many little 
low stone cottages are seen, surrounded with simple gar- 
dens of flowers. For a long time the train runs through 
a deep ravine, with rocky banks on either hand, but 
presently it emerges into pastures where the sheep are 
grazing, and into fields in which the late harvest stands 
garnered in many graceful sheaves. Tall chimneys, 
vigorously smoking, are visible here and there in the 
distant landscape. The fat, black rooks are taking their 
morning flight, clamouring as they go. Stone houses 
with red roofs glide into the picture, and a graceful 
church-spire rises on a remote hill-top. In all directions 
there are trees, but they seem of recent growth, for no 

230 



CHAP. XVII 



INTO THE HIGHLANDS 



231 



one of them is large. Soon the old cattle-market town 
of Falkirk springs up in the prospect, girt with fine hills 
and crested with masses of white and black smoke that is 
poured upward from the many tall chimneys of its busy 
ironworks. The houses here are made of gray stone 
and of red brick, and many of them are large, square 







(^y^fh>T 



Stirliiio^ Castle. 



buildings, seemingly commodious and opulent. A huge 
cemetery, hemmed in with trees and shrubs, is seen to 
skirt the city. Carron River, with its tiny but sounding 
cataract, is presently passed, and at Larbert your glance 
rests lovingly upon " the little gray church on the windy 
hill." North of this place, beyond the Forth, the coun- 



232 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

try in the distance is mountainous, while all the inter- 
mediate region is rich with harvest-fields. Kinnaird lies 
to the eastward, while northward a little way is the fa- 
mous field of Bannockburn. Two miles more and the 
train pauses in " gray Stirling," glorious with associa- 
tions of historic splendour and ancient romance. The 
Castle of Stirling is not as ruggedly grand as that of 
Edinburgh, but it is a noble architectural pile, and it is 
nobly placed on a great crag fronting the vast moun- 
tains and the gloomy heavens of the north. The best 
view of it is obtained looking at it southward, and as I 
gazed upon it, under a cold and frowning sky, the air 
was populous with many birds that circled around its 
cone-shaped turrets, and hovered over the plain below, 
while across the distant mountain-tops, east, west, and 
north, dark and ragged masses of mist were driven, in 
wild, tempestuous flight. Speeding onward now, along 
the southern bank of the Forth, the traveller takes a 
westerly course, past Gargunnock and Kippen, seeing 
little villages of gray stone cottages nestled in the 
hill-gaps, distant mountain-sides, clad with furze, dark 
patches of woodland, and moors of purple heather 
commingled with meadows of brilliant green. The sun 
breaks out, for a few moments, and the sombre hue of 
the gray sky is Hghtened with streaks of gold. At 
Bucklyvie there is a second pause, and then the course 
is northwest, through banks and braes of heather, to 
peaceful Aberfoyle and the mountains of Menteith. 

The characteristic glory of the Scottish hills is the 
infinite variety and beauty of their shapes and the 
loveliness of their colour. The English mountairis and 
lakes in Westmoreland and Cumberland possess a 



XVII INTO THE HIGHLANDS 233 

sweeter and softer grace, and are more calmly and woo- 
ingly beautiful ; but the Scottish mountains and lakes 
excel them in grandeur, majesty, and romance. It 
would be presumption to undertake to describe the 
solemn austerity, the lofty and lonely magnificence, the 
bleak, weird, haunted isolation, and the fairy-like fan- 
tasy of this poetic realm ; but a lover of it may declare 
his passion and speak his sense of its enthralling and 
bewitching charm. Sir Walter Scott's spirited and 
trenchant lines on the emotion of the patriot sang 
themselves over and over in my thought, and were 
wholly and grandly ratified, as the coach rolled up the 
mountain road, ever climbing height after height, while 
new and ever new prospects continually unrolled them- 
selves before delighted eyes, on the familiar but always 
novel journey from Aberfoyle to the Trosachs. That 
mountain road, on its upward course, and during most 
part of the way, winds through treeless pastureland, and 
in every direction, as your vision ranges, you behold 
other mountains equally bleak, save for the bracken and 
the heather, among which the sheep wander, and the 
grouse nestle in concealment or whir away on fright- 
ened wings. Ben Lomond, wrapt in straggling mists, 
was dimly visible far to the west ; Ben A'an towered 
conspicuous in the foreground ; and further north Ben 
Ledi heaved its broad mass and rugged sides to heaven. 
Loch Vennacher, seen for a few moments, shone like a 
diamond set in emeralds, and as we gazed we seemed to 
see the bannered barges of Roderick Dhu and to hear 
the martial echoes of " Hail to the Chief." Loch Ach- 
ray glimmered forth for an instant under the gray sky, 
as when '' the small birds would not sing aloud " and the 



234 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



wrath equally of tempest and of war hung silently above 
it, in one awful moment of suspense. There was a sud- 
den and dazzling vision of Loch Katrine, and then all 
prospect was broken, and, rolling down among the 
thickly wooded dwarf hills that give the name of 
Trosachs to this place, we were lost in the masses of 




Loch Achtay. 

fragrant foliage that girdle and adorn, in perennial 
verdure the hallowed scene of TJie Lady of the Lake. 

Loch Katrine is another Lake Horicon, with a grander 
environment, and this, like all the Scottish lakes, has the 
advantage of a more evenly sharp and vigorous air and 
of leaden and frowning skies [in which, nevertheless, 
there is a peculiar, penetrating light,] that darken their 



INTO THE HIGHLANDS 



235 



waters and impart to them a dangerous aspect that yet 
is strangely beautiful. As we swept past Ellen's island 
and Fitz-James's silver strand I was grateful to see them 
in the mystery of this gray light and not in the garish 
sunshine. All around this sweet lake are the sentinel 
mountains, — Ben Venue rising in the south, Ben A'an 
in the east, and all the castellated ramparts that girdle 




Loch Katrine. 

Glen Finglas in the north. The eye dwells enraptured 
upon the circle of the hills ; but by this time the imag- 
ination is so acutely stimulated, and the mind is so filled 
with glorious sights and exciting and ennobling reflec- 
tions, that the sense of awe is tempered with a pensive 
sadness, and you feel yourself rebuked and humbled by 
the final and effectual lesson of man's insignificance that 
is taught by the implacable vitality of these eternal moun- 
tains. It is a relief to be brought back for a little to 



236 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

common life, and this relief you find in the landing at 
Stronachlachar and the ensuing drive, — across the nar- 
row strip of the shire of Stirling that intervenes between 
Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond, — to the port of In- 
versnaid. That drive is through a wild and picturesque 
country, but after the mountain road from Aberfoyle to 
the Trosachs it could not well seem otherwise than calm, 
— at least till the final descent into the vale of Inver- 
snaid. From Inversnaid there is a short sail upon the 
northern waters of Loch Lomond, — forever haunted by 
the shaggy presence of Rob Roy and the fierce and ter- 
rible image of Helen Macgregor, — and then, landing at 
Ardlui, you drive past Inverarnan and hold a northern 
course to Crianlarich, traversing the vale of the Falloch 
and skirting along the western slope of the grim and 
gloomy Grampians, on which for miles and miles no 
human habitation is seen, nor any living creature save 
the vacant, abject sheep. The mountains are every- 
where now, brown with bracken and purple with heather, 
stony, rugged, endless, desolate, and still with a stillness 
that is awful in its pitiless sense of inhumanity and 
utter isolation. At Crianlarich the railway is found 
again, and thence you whirl onward through lands of 
Breadalbane and Argyle to the proud mountains of 
Glen Orchy and the foot of that loveliest of all the 
lovely waters of Scotland, — the ebony crystal of Loch 
Awe. The night is deepening over it as I write these 
words. The dark and solemn mountains that guard it 
stretch away into the mysterious distance and are lost 
in the shuddering gloom. The gray clouds have drifted 
by, and the cold, clear stars of autumnal heaven are 
reflected in its crystal depth, unmarred by even the 



XVII INTO THE HIGHLANDS 237 

faintest ripple upon its surface. A few small boats, 
moored to anchored buoys, float motionless upon it, a 
little way from shore. There, on its lonely island, 
dimly visible in the fading light, stands the gray ruin 
of Kilchurn. A faint whisper comes from the black 
woods that fringe the mountain base, and floating from 
far across this lonely, haunted water there is a drowsy 
bird-note that calls to silence and to sleep. 





CHAPTER XVIII 



HIGHLAND BEAUTIES 




BAN, September 17, 1889. — Seen in the 
twilight, as I first saw it, Oban is a pretty 
and picturesque seaside village, gay with 
glancing lights and busy with the move- 
ments of rapid vehicles and expeditious 
travellers. It is called the capital of the Western High- 
lands, and no doubt it deserves the name, for it is the 
common centre of all the trade and enterprise of this 
region, and all the threads of travel radiate from it. 
Built in a semicircle, along the margin of a lovely shel- 
tered bay, it looks forth upon the wild waters of the 
Firth of Lorn, visible, southwesterly, through the sable 
sound of Kerrera, while behind and around it rises a 
bold range of rocky and sparsely wooded hills. On 
these are placed a few villas, and on a point toward the 
north stand the venerable, ivy-clad ruins of Dunolly 
Castle, in the ancestral domain of the ancient Highland 
family of Macdougall. The houses of Oban are built 
of gray stone and are mostly modern. There are many 
hotels fronting upon the Parade, which extends for a 
long distance upon the verge of the sea. The opposite 

238 



CHAP. XVIII HIGHLAND BEAUTIES 239 

shore is Kerrera, an island about a mile distant, and 
beyond that island, and beyond Lorn water, extends the 
beautiful island of Mull, confronting iron-ribbed Mor- 
ven. In many ways Oban is suggestive of an Ameri- 
can seaport upon the New England coast. Various 
characteristics mark it that may be seen at Gloucester, 
Massachusetts [although that once romantic place has 
been spoiled by the Irish peasantry], and at Mount 
Desert in Maine. The surroundings, indeed, are dif- 
ferent ; for the Scottish hills have a delicious colour and 
a wildness all their own ; while the skies, unlike those 
of blue and brilliant America, lower, gloom, threaten, 
and tinge the whole world beneath them, — the moors, 
the mountains, the clustered gray villages, the lonely 
ruins, and the tumbling plains of the desolate sea, — 
with a melancholy, romantic, shadowy darkness, the 
perfect twilight of poetic vision. No place could be 
more practical than Oban is, in its everyday life, nor 
any place more sweet and dreamlike to the pensive 
mood of contemplation and the roving gaze of fancy. 
Viewed, as I viewed it, under the starlight and the 
drifting cloud, between two and three o'clock this morn- 
ing, it was a picture of beauty, never to be forgotten. 
A few lights were twinkling here and there among the 
dwellings, or momentarily flaring on the deserted Pa- 
rade. No sound was heard but the moaning of the 
night-wind and the plash of waters softly surging on the 
beach. Now and then a belated passenger came wan- 
dering along the pavement and disappeared in a turn of 
the road. The air was sweet with the mingled fra- 
grance of the heathery hills and the salt odours of the 
sea. Upon the glassy bosom of the bay, dark, clear, 



CHAP. XVIII HIGHLAND BEAUTIES 24 1 

and gently undulating with the pressure of the ocean 
tide, more than seventy small boats, each moored at a 
buoy and all veered in one direction, swung careless on 
the water; and mingled with them were upward of 
twenty schooners and little steamboats, all idle and all 
at peace. Many an hour of toil and sorrow is yet to 
come, before the long, strange journey of life is ended; 
but the memory of that wonderful midnight moment, 
alone with the majesty of Nature, will be a solace. in the 
darkest of them. 

The Highland journey, from first to last, is an experi- 
ence altogether novel and precious, and it is remem- 
bered with gratitude and delight. Before coming to 
Oban I gave two nights and days to Loch Awe, — a 
place so beautiful and so fraught with the means of 
happiness that time stands still in it, and even *' the 
ceaseless vulture" of care and regret ceases for a while 
to vex the spirit with remembrance of anything that is 
sad. Looking down from the summit of one of the 
great mountains that are the rich and rugged setting of 
this jewel, I saw the crumbling ruin of Kilchurn upon 
its little island, gray relic first of the Macgregors and 
then of the Campbells, who dispossessed them and 
occupied their realm. It must have been an imperial 
residence once. Its situation, — cut off from the main- 
land and commanding a clear view, up the lake and 
down the valleys, southward and northward, — is su- 
perb. No enemy could approach it unawares, and 
doubtless the followers of the Macgregor occupied every 
adjacent pass and were ambushed in every thicket on 
the heights. Seen from the neighbouring mountain- 
side the waters of Loch Awe are of such crystal clear- 

Q 



242 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

ness that near some parts of the shore the white sands 
are visible in perfect outUne beneath them, while all the 
glorious engirdling hills are reflected in their still and 
shining depth. Sometimes the sun flashed out and 
changed the waters to liquid silver, lighting up the gray 
ruin and flooding the mountain slopes with gold ; but 
more often the skies kept their sombre hue, darkening 
all beneath them with a lovely gloom. All around were 
the beautiful hills of Glen Orchy, and far to the east- 
ward great waves of white and leaden mist, slowly 
drifting in the upper ether, now hid and now disclosed 
the Olympian head of Ben Lui and the tangled hills of 
Glen Shirra and Glen Fyne. Close by, in its sweet 
vale of Sabbath stillness, was couched the little town 
of Dalmally, sole reminder of the presence of man in 
these remote solitudes, where Nature keeps the temple 
of her worship, and where words are needless to utter 
her glory and her praise. All day long the peaceful 
lake slumbered in placid beauty under the solemn sky, 
— a few tiny boats and two little steamers swinging at 
anchor on its bosom. All day long the shadows of the 
clouds, commingled with flecks of sunshine, went drift- 
ing over the mountain. At nightfall two great flocks of 
sheep, each attended by the pensive shepherd in his 
plaid, and each guided and managed by those wonder- 
fully intelligent collies that are a never-failing delight 
in these mountain lands, came slowly along the vale 
and presently vanished in Glen Strae. Nothing then 
broke the stillness but the sharp cry of the shepherd's 
dog and the sound of many cataracts, some hidden and 
some seen, that lapse in music and fall in many a mass 
of shattered silver and flying spray, through deep, rocky 



XVIII HIGHLAND BEAUTIES 243 

rifts down the mountain-side. After sunset a cold wind 
came on to blow, and soon the heavens were clear and 
"all the number of the stars" were mirrored in beauti- 
ful Loch Awe. 

They speak of the southwestern extremity of this lake 
as the head of it. Loch Awe station, accordingly, is at 
its foot, near Kilchurn. Nevertheless, '' where Mac- 
gregor sits is the head of the table," for the foot of the 
loch is lovelier than its head. And yet its head also is 
lovely, although in a less positive way. From Loch 
Awe station to Ford, a distance of twenty-six miles, you 
sail in a toy steamboat, sitting either on the open deck 
or in a cabin of glass and gazing at the panorama of 
the hills on either hand, some wooded and some bare, 
and all magnificent. A little after passing the mouth 
of the river Awe, which flows through the black Pass 
of Brander and unites with Loch Etive, I saw the 
double crest of great Ben Cruachan towering into the 
clouds and visible at intervals above them, — the higher 
peak magnificently bold. It is a wild country all about 
this region, but here and there you see a little hamlet 
or a lone farm-house, and among the moorlands the 
occasional figure of a sportsman, with his dog and gun. 
As the boat sped onward into the moorland district the 
mountains became great shapes of snowy crystal, under 
the sullen sky, and presently resolved into vast cloud- 
shadows, dimly outlined against the northern heavens, 
and seemingly based upon a sea of rolling vapour. The 
sail is past Inisdrynich, the island of the Druids, past 
Inishail and Inisfraoch, and presently past the lovely 
ruin of Inischonnd Castle, called also Ardchonnel, fac- 
ing southward, at the end of an island promontory, and 



244 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



covered thick with ivy. The landing is at Ford Pier, 
and about one mile from that point you may see a little 
inn, a few cottages crumbling in picturesque decay, and 
a diminutive kirk, that constitute the village of Ford. 
My purpose here was to view an estate close by this 
village, now owned by Henry Bruce, Esq., but many 
years ago the domain of Alexander Campbell, Esq., an 
ancestor of my children, being their mother's grandsire; 
and not in all Scotland could be found a more romantic 
spot than the glen by the lochside that shelters the 
melancholy, decaying, haunted fabric of the old house 
of Ederline. Such a poet as Edgar Poe would have 
revelled in that place, — and well he might! There is 
a new and grand mansion, on higher ground, in the 
park ; but the ancient house, almost abandoned now, is 
a thousand times more characteristic and interesting 
than the new one. Both are approached through a 
long, winding avenue, overhung with great trees that 
interlace their branches above it and make a cathedral 
aisle ; but soon the pathway to the older house turns 
aside into a grove of chestnuts, birches, and yews, — 
winding under vast dark boughs that bend like serpents 
completely to the earth and then ascend once more, — 
and so goes onward, through sombre glades and through 
groves of rhododendron, to the levels of Loch Ederline 
and the front of the mansion, now desolate and half in 
ruins. It was an old house a hundred years ago. It is 
covered with ivy and buried among the trees, and on 
its surface and on the tree-trunks around it the lichen 
and the yellow moss have gathered, in rank luxuriance. 
The waters of the lake ripple upon a rocky landing 
almost at its door. Here once lived as proud a Camp- 



XVIII HIGHLAND BEAUTIES 245 

bell as ever breathed in Scotland, and here his haughty 
spirit wrought out for itself the doom of a lonely age 
and a broken heart. His grave is on a little island in 
the lake, — a family burying-ground,^ such as may often 
be found on ancient, sequestered estates in the High- 
lands, — where the tall trees wave above it and the 
weeds are growing thick upon its surface, while over it 
the rooks caw and clamour and the idle winds career, 
in heedless indifference that is sadder even than neg- 
lect. So destiny vindicates its inexorable edict and the 
great law of retribution is fulfilled. A stranger sits in 
his seat and rules in his hall, and of all the followers 
that once waited on his lightest word there remains but 
a single one, — aged, infirm, and nearing the end of the 
long journey, — to scrape the moss from his forgotten 
gravestone and to think sometimes of his ancient great- 
ness and splendour, forever passed away. We rowed 
around Loch Ederline and looked down into its black 
waters, that in some parts have never been sounded, 
and are fabled to reach through to the other side of the 

^ On the stone that marks this sepulchre are inscriptions, which may 
suitably be preserved in this chronicle : 

" Alexander Campbell Esquire, of Ederline. Died 2^ October, 184 1. 
In his 76th year. 

Matilda Campbell. Second daughter of William Campbell Esq., of 
Ederline. Died on the 21^' Nov"" 1842. In her 6*^ year. 

William Campbell Esq., of Ederline. Died 15'^^ January 1855, in his 
42nd year. 

Lachlan Aderson Campbell. His son. Died January 27^^, 1859. In 
his 5^h year." 

[John Campbell, the eldest son of Alexander, died February 26, 
1855, aged 45, and was buried in the Necropolis, at Toronto, Canada. His 
widow, Janet TuUoch Campbell, a native of Wick, Caithness, died at 
Toronto, August 24, 1878, aged 65, and was buried beside him.] 



246 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

world, and, as our oars dipped and plashed, the thnid 
moor-fowl scurried into the bushes and the white swans 
sailed away in haughty wrath, while, warned by gather- 
ing storm-clouds, multitudes of old rooks, that long have 
haunted the place, came flying overhead, with many a 
querulous croak, toward their nests in Ederline grove. 

Back to Loch Awe station, and presently onward 
past the Falls of Cruachan and through the grim Pass 
of Brander, — down which the waters of the Awe rush 
in a sable flood between jagged and precipitous cliffs 
for miles and miles, — and soon we see the bright waves 
of Loch Etive smiling under a sunset sky, and the 
many bleak, brown hills that fringe Glen Lonan and 
range along to Oban and the verge of the sea. There 
will be an hour for rest and thought. It seems wild 
and idle to write about these things. Life in Scotland 
is deeper, richer, stronger, and sweeter than any words 
could possibly be that any man could possibly expend 
upon it. The place is the natural home of imagina- 
tion, romance, and poetry. Thought is grander here, 
and passion is wilder and more exuberant than on the 
velvet plains and among the chaste and stately elms of 
the South. The blood flows in a stormier torrent and 
the mind takes on something of the gloomy and savage 
majesty of those gaunt, barren, lonely hills. Even Sir 
Walter Scott, speaking of his own great works, — which 
are precious beyond words, and must always be loved 
and cherished by readers who know what beauty is, — 
said that all he had ever done was to polish the brasses 
that already were made. This is the soul of excellence 
in British literature, and this, likewise, is the basis of 
stability in British civilisation, — that the country is 



246 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

world, and, as our oars dipped and plashed, the timid 
moor-fowl scurried into the bushes and the white swans 
sailed away in haughty wrath,, while, warned by gather- 
ing storm-clouds, multitudes of old rooks, that long have 
haunted the place, came flying overhead, with many a 
querulous croak, toward their nests in EderHne grove. 

Back to Loch Awe station, and presently onward 
past the Falls of Cruachan and through the grim Pass 
of Brander,. — down which the waters of the Awe rush 
in a sable flood between jagged and precipitous cliffs 
for miles and miles, — and soon we see the bright waves 
v:h Etive smiling under a sunset sky, and the 
'iiiiiv bleak, brown hills that fringe Glen Lonan and 
range alnng to Oban and the verge of the sea. There 
will be an hour for rest anffiwWicrogiit. It seems wild 
and idle to write about these things. Life in Scotland 
is deeper, richer, stronger, and sweeter than any words 
could possibly be that any man could possibly expend 
upon it. The place is the natural home of imagina- 
tion, romance, and poetry. Thought is grander here, 
and passion is wilder and more exuberant than on the 
velvet plains and among the chaste and stately elms of 
the South. The blood flows in a stormier torrent and 
the mind takes on something of the gloomy and savage 
majesty of those gaunt, barren, lonely hills. Even Sir 
Walter Scott, speaking of his own great works, — which 
are precious beyond words, and must always be loved 
and cherished by readers who know what beauty is, — 
said that all he had ever done was to polish the brasses 
that already were made. This is the soul of excellence 
in British literature, and this, likewise, is the basis of 
stability in British civilisation, — that the country is 




i *. 



XVIII HIGHLAND BEAUTIES 247 

lovelier than the loveliest poetry that ever was written 
about it, or ever could be written about it, and that the 
land and the life possess an inherent fascination for the 
inhabitants, that nothing else could supply, and that no 
influence can ever destroy or even seriously disturb. 
Democracy is rife all over the world, but it will as soon 
impede the eternal courses of the stars as it will change 
the constitution or shake the social fabric of this realm. 
** Once more upon the waters — yet once more ! " Soon 
upon the stormy billows of Lorn I shall see these lovely 
shores fade in the distance. Soon, merged again in the 
strife and tumult of the commonplace world, I shall 
murmur, with as deep a sorrow as the sad strain itself 
expresses, the tender words of Scott : 

" Glenorchy's proud mountains, 
Kilchurn and her towers, 
Glenstrae and Glenlyon 
No lono-er are ours." 




f^^ ^KMM^M:W^.^.^&&^M^^^:^£^ -^, 







CHAPTER XIX 



THE HEART OF SCOTLAND 




Z'/^/f Heart of Scotland, Britain's other eye'' — Ben Jonson 

DINBURGH, August 24, 1890.— Abright 
blue sky, across which many masses of 
thin white cloud are borne swiftly on the 
cool western wind, bends over the stately 
city, and all her miles of gray mansions 
and spacious, cleanly streets sparkle beneath it in a flood 
of summer sunshine. It is the Lord's Day, and most of 
the highways are deserted and quiet. From the top 
of the Calton Hill you look down upon hundreds of 
blue smoke-wreaths curling upward from the chimneys 
of the resting and restful town, and in every direction 
the prospect is one of opulence and peace. A thou- 
sand years of history are here crystallised within the 
circuit of a single glance, and while you gaze upon 
one of the grandest emblems that the world contains 
of a storied and romantic past, you behold likewise a 
living and resplendent pageant of the beauty of to-day. 
Nowhere else are the Past and the Present so lovingly 

248 



CHAP, XIX 



THE HEART OF SCOTLAND 



249 



blended. There, in the centre, towers the great crown 
of St. Giles. Hard by are the quaint slopes of the 
Canongate, — teeming with illustrious, or picturesque, 
or terrible figures of Long Ago. Yonder the glorious 
Castle Crag looks steadfastly westward, — its manifold, 
wonderful colours continuously changing in the change- 
ful daylight. Down in the valley 
haunted by a myriad of memories 
resplendent face and entrancing 
nestles at the foot of the giant 
Crag ; while the dark, rivened peak 
Seat rears itself supremely over the 
whole stupendous scene. South- 
ward and westward, in the 
distance, extends the bleak 
range of the Pentland Hills 
eastward the cone 
of Berwick Law 
and the desolate 
Bass Rock seem 
to cleave the sea ; 
and northward, 
beyond the glis- 
tening crystal of 
the Forth, — with '^ 

the white lines of 
embattled Inch- 
keith like a dia- ' 

mond on its bos- 
om, — the lovely 
Lomonds, the virginal mountain breasts of Fife, are 
bared to the kiss of heaven. It is such a picture as 




T/?g Crotvn of St. Giles's. 



250 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

words can but faintly suggest ; but when you look upon 
it you readil}^ comprehend the pride and the passion 
with which a Scotsman loves his native land. 

Dr. Johnson named Edinburgh as *' a city too well 
known to admit description." That judgment was pro- 
claimed more than a hundred years ago, — before yet 
Caledonia had bewitched the world's heart as the 
haunted land of Robert Burns and Walter Scott, — 
and if it were true then it is all the more true now. 
But while the reverent pilgrim along the ancient high- 
ways of history may not wisely attempt description, 
which would be superfluous, he perhaps may usefully 
indulge in brief chronicle and impression, — for these 
sometimes prove suggestive to minds that are kindred 
with his own. Hundreds of travellers visit Edinburgh, 
but it is one thing to visit and another thing to see ; 
and every suggestion, surely, is of value that helps to 
clarify our vision. This capital is not learned by driv- 
ing about in a cab ; for Edinburgh to be truly seen and 
comprehended must be seen and comprehended as an 
exponent of the colossal individuality of the Scottish 
character; and therefore it must be observed with 
thought. Here is no echo and no imitation. Many 
another provincial city of Britain is a miniature copy 
of London ; but the quality of Edinburgh is her own. 
Portions of her architecture do indeed denote a rev- 
erence for ancient Italian models, while certain other 
portions reveal the influence of the semi-classical taste 
that prevailed in the time of the Regent, afterwards 
George the Fourth. The democratic tendency of this 
period, — expressing itself here precisely as it does 
everywhere else, in button-making pettiness and vul- 



XIX THE HEART OF SCOTLAND 25 I 

gar commonplace, — is likewise sufficiently obvious. 
Nevertheless, in every important detail of Edinburgh 
and of its life, the reticent, resolute, formidable, im- 
petuous, passionate character of the Scottish race is 
conspicuous and predominant. Much has been said 
against the Scottish spirit, — the tide of cavil purling 
on from Dr. Johnson to Sydney Smith. Dignity has 
been denied to it, and so has magnanimity, and so has 
humour ; but there is no audience more quick than the 
Scottish audience to respond either to pathos or to 
mirth ; there is no literature in the world so musically, 
tenderly, and weirdly poetical as the Scottish litera- 
ture ; there is no place on earth where the imagina- 
tive instinct of the national mind has resisted, as it 
has resisted in Scotland, the encroachment of utility 
upon the domain of romance ; there is no people whose 
history has excelled that of Scotland in the display of 
heroic, intellectual, and moral purpose, combined with 
passionate sensibility ; and no city could surpass the 
physical fact of Edinburgh as a manifestation of broad 
ideas, unstinted opulence, and grim and rugged gran- 
deur. Whichever way you turn, and whatever object 
you behold, that consciousness is always present to 
your thought, — the consciousness of a race of beings 
intensely original, individual, passionate, authoritative, 
and magnificent. 

The capital of Scotland is not only beautiful but elo- 
quent. The present writer does not assume to describe 
it, or to instruct the reader concerning it, but only to 
declare that at every step the sensitive ' mind is im- 
pressed v/ith the splendid intellect, the individual force, 
and the romantic charm of the Scottish character, as it 




^d^.iMM»i:km: 



Seoul's House iii Edinbui ah. 



CHAP. XIX. THE HEART OF SCOTLAND 253 

is commemorated and displayed in this delightful place. 
What a wealth of significance it possesses may be indi- 
cated by even the most meagre record and the most 
superficial commentary upon the passing events of a 
traveller's ordinary day. The greatest name in the 
literature of Scotland is Walter Scott. He lived and 
laboured for twenty-four years in the modest three- 
story, gray stone house which is No. 39 Castle street. 
It has been my privilege to enter that house, and to 
stand in the room in which Scott began the novel of 
Wavcrlcy. Many years roll backward under the spell 
of such an experience, and the gray-haired man is a 
boy again, with all the delights of the Waverley Novels 
before him, health shining in his eyes, and joy beating 
in his heart, as he looks onward through vistas of 
golden light into a paradise of fadeless flowers and of 
happy dreams. The room that was Scott's study is a 
small one, on the first floor, at the back, and is lighted 
by one large window, opening eastward, through which 
you look upon the rear walls of sombre, gray buildings, 
and upon a small slope of green lawn, in which is the 
unmarked grave of one of Sir Walter's dogs. "The 
misery of keeping a dog," he once wrote, "is his dying 
so soon ; but, to be sure, if he lived for fifty years 
and then died, what would become of me.'^" My 
attention was called to a peculiar fastening on the 
window of the study, — invented and placed there by 
Scott himself, — so arranged that the sash can be 
safely kept locked when raised a few inches from the 
sill. On the south side of the room is the fireplace, 
facing which he would sit as he wrote, and into which, 
of an evening, he has often gazed, hearing meanwhile 



254 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

the moan of the winter wind, and conjuring up, in the 
blazing brands, those figures of brave knights and gen- 
tle ladies that were to live forever in the amber of his 
magical art. Next to the study, on the same floor, is 
the larger apartment that was his dining-room, where 
his portrait of Claverhouse, now at Abbotsford, once 
hung above the mantel, and where so many of the 
famous people of the past enjoyed his hospitality and 
his talk. On the south wall of this room now hang 
two priceless autograph letters, one of them in the 
handwriting of Scott, the other in that of Burns. 
Both rooms are used for business offices now, — th^ 
house being tenanted by the agency of the New Zea- 
land Mortgage Company, — and both are furnished 
with large presses, for the custody of deeds and family 
archives. Nevertheless these rooms remain much as 
they were when Scott lived in them, and his spirit 
seems to haunt the place. I was brought very near 
to him that day, for in the same hour was placed in 
my hands the original manuscript of his JournaL and 
I saw, in his handwriting, the last words that ever 
fell from his pen. That Journal is in two quarto 
volumes. One of them is filled with writing ; the 
other half filled ; and the lines in both are of a fine, 
small character, crowded closely together. Toward the 
last the writing manifests only too well the growing 
infirmity of the broken Minstrel, — the forecast of the 
hallowed deathbed of Abbotsford and the venerable 
and glorious tomb of Dryburgh. These are his last 
words : " We slept reasonably, but on the next morn- 
ing " — and so the Joitrnal abruptly ends. I can in 
no way express the emotion with which I looked upon 



THE HEART OP^ SCOTLAND 



255 



those feebly scrawled syllables, — the last effort of the 
nerveless hand that once had been strong enough to 
thrill the heart of all the world. The Journal has been 
lovingly and carefully edited by David Douglas, whose 
fine taste and great gentleness of nature, together with 
his ample knowledge of Scottish literature and society, 
eminently qualify him for the performance of this sa- 
cred duty ; and the world will possess this treasure and 
feel the charm of its beauty and pathos, — which is the 
charm of a great nature expressed in its perfect sim- 
plicity ; but the spell that is cast upon the heart and 
the imagination by a prospect of the actual handwrit- 
ing of Sir Walter Scott, in the last words that he wrote, 
cannot be conveyed in print. 

From the house in Castle street I went to the rooms 
of the Royal Society, where there is a portrait of Scott, 
by John Graham Gilbert, 
more lifelike, — being rep- 
resentative of his soul as 
well as his face and person, 
— than any other that is 
known. It hangs there, in 
company with other paint- 
ings of former presidents of 
this institution, — notably 
one of Sir David Brewster 
and one of James Watt, — 
in the hall in which Sir 
Walter often sat, presiding 
over the deliberations and 
literary exercises of his comrades in scholarship and art. 
In another hall I saw a pulpit in which John Knox used to 




The Maiden. 



256 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. XIX 



preach, in the old days of what Dr. Johnson expressively 
called "The ruffians of Reformation," and hard by was 
"The Maiden," the terrible Scottish guillotine, with its 
great square knife, set in a thick weight of lead, by 
which the grim Regent Morton was slain, in 1581, the 
Marquis of Argyle, in 1661, and the gallant, magnani- 
mous, devoted Earl of Argyle, in 1685, — one more 
sacrifice to the insatiate House of Stuart, This mon- 











Grayfria> s Church. 

ster has drunk the blood of many a noble gentleman, 
and there is a weird, sinister suggestion of gratified 
ferocity and furtive malignity in its rude, grisly, un- 
canny fabric of blackened timbers. You may see, in 
the quaint little panelled chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, 
in the Cowgate, not distant from the present abode of 
the sanguinary Maiden, — brooding over her hideous 
consummation of slaughter and misery, — the place 




High Street — Allan Ramsay's Shop. 



258 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

where the mangled body of the heroic Argyle was 
laid, in secret sanctuary, for several nights after that 
scene of piteous sacrifice at the old Market Cross ; and 
when you walk in the solemn enclosure of the Gray- 
friars church, — so fitly styled, by Sir Walter, The 
Westminster Abbey of Scotland, — your glance will 
fall upon a sunken pillar, low down upon the northern 
slope of that haunted, lamentable ground, which bears 
the letters " I. M.," and which marks the grave of the 
baleful Morton, whom the Maiden decapitated, for his 
share in the murder of Rizzio. In these old cities there 
is no keeping away from' sepulchres. "The paths of 
glory," in every sense, "lead but to the grave." George 
Buchanan and Allan Ramsay, poets whom no literary 
pilgrim will neglect, rest in this churchyard, though 
the exact places of their interment are not positively 
denoted, and here, likewise, rest the elegant his- 
torian Robertson, and "the Addison of Scotland," 
Henry Mackenzie. The building in the High street 
in which Allan Ramsay once had his abode and his 
bookshop, and in which he wrote his pastoral of T/ie 
Gentle Shepherd, is occupied now by a barber ; but, 
since he is one that scorns not to proclaim over his door, 
in mighty letters, the poetic lineage of his dwelling, it 
seems not amiss that this haunt of the Muses should 
have fallen into such lowly hands. Of such a character, 
hallowed with associations that pique the fancy and touch 
the heart, are the places and the names that an itinerant 
continually encounters in his rambles in Edinburgh. 

The pilgrim could muse for many an hour over the 
little Venetian mirror ^ that hangs in the bedroom of 

1 It is a small oval glass, of which the rim is fashioned with crescents, 
twenty-two of them on each side. 



THE HEART OF SCOTLAND 



259 



Mary Stuart, in Holyrood Palace. What faces and 
what scenes it must have reflected ! How often her 
own beautiful countenance and person, — the dazzling 
eyes, the snowy brow, the red gold hair, the alabaster 
bosom, — may have blazed in its crystal depths, now 
tarnished and dim, like the record of her own calamitous 
and wretched days ! Did those lovely eyes look into 
this mirror, and was their glance scared and tremulous, 
or fixed and terrible, on that dismal February night, so 
many years ago, when the fatal explosion in the Kirk 
o' Field resounded with an echo that has never died 
away ? Who can tell ? This glass saw the gaunt and 
livid face of Ruthven, when he led his comrades of 
murder into that royal chamber, and it beheld Rizzio, 
screaming in mortal terror, as he was torn from the 
skirts of his mistress and savagely slain before her eyes. 
Perhaps, also, when that hideous episode was over and 
done with, it saw Queen Mary and her despicable hus- 
band the next time they met, and were alone together, 
in that ghastly room. '' It shall be dear blood to some 
of you," the queen had said, while the murder of 
Rizzio was doing. Surely, having so injured a woman, 
any man with eyes to see might have divined his fate, 
in the perfect calm of her heavenly face and the smooth 
tones of her gentle voice, at such a moment as that. 
"At the fireside tragedies are acted," — and tragic 
enough must have been the scene of that meeting, 
apart from human gaze, in the chamber of crime and 
death. No other relic of Mary Stuart stirs the im- 
agination as that mirror does, — unless, perhaps, it be 
the little ebony crucifix, once owned and reverenced 
by Sir Walter Scott and now piously treasured at 




The Canongate, 



CHAP. XIX THE HEART OF SCOTLAND 26 1 

Abbotsford, which she held in her hands when she 
went to her death, in the hall of Fotheringay Castle. 

Holyrood Palace, in Mary Stuart's time, was not of 
its present shape. The tower containing her rooms 
was standing, and from that tower the building ex- 
tended eastward to the abbey, and then it veered to the 
south. Much of the building was destroyed by fire in 
1544, and again in Cromwell's time, but both church 
and palace were rebuilt. The entire south side, with 
its tower that looks directly towards the crag, was 
added in the later period of Charles the Second. The 
furniture in Mary Stuart's room is partly spurious, but 
the rooms are genuine. Musing thus, and much striv- 
ing to reconstruct those strange scenes of the past, in 
which that beautiful, dangerous woman bore so great a 
part, the pilgrim strolls away into the Canongate, — 
once clean and elegant, now squalid and noisome, — 
and still the storied figures of history walk by his side 
or come to meet him at every close and wynd. John 
Knox, Robert Burns, Tobias Smollett, David Hume, 
Dugald Stuart, John Wilson, Hugh Miller, Gay, led 
onward by the blithe and gracious Duchess of Queens- 
berry, and Dr. Johnson, escorted by the affectionate 
and faithful James Boswell, the best biographer that 
ever lived, — these and many more, the lettered worthies 
of long ago, throng into this haunted street and glorify 
it with the rekindled splendours of other days. You 
cannot be lonely here. This it is that makes the place 
so eloquent and so precious. For what did those 
men live and labour ? To what were their shining 
talents and wonderful forces devoted ? To the dis- 
semination of learning ; to the emancipation of the 



262 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xix 

human mind from the bondage of error ; to the ministry 
of the beautiful, — and thus to the advancement of the 
human race in material comfort, in gentleness of thought, 
in charity of conduct, in refinement of manners, and in 
that spiritual exaltation by which, and only by which, 
the true progress of mankind is at once accomplished 
and proclaimed. 

But the dark has come, and this Edinburgh ramble 
shall end with the picture that closed its own magnifi- 
cent day. You are standing on the rocky summit of 
Arthur's Seat. From that superb mountain peak your 
gaze takes in the whole capital, together with the country 
in every direction for many miles around. The evening 
is uncommonly clear. Only in the west dense masses of 
black cloud are thickly piled upon each other, through 
which the sun is sinking, red and sullen with menace 
of the storm. Elsewhere and overhead the sky is 
crystal, and of a pale, delicate blue. A cold wind blows 
briskly from the east and sweeps a million streamers of 
white smoke in turbulent panic aver the darkening roofs 
of the city, far below. In the north the lovely Lomond 
Hills are distinctly visible across the dusky level of the 
Forth, which stretches away toward the ocean, one 
broad sheet of glimmering steel, — its margin indented 
with many a graceful bay, and the little islands that 
adorn it shining like stones of amethyst set in polished 
flint. A few brown sails are visible, dotting the waters, 
and far to the east appears the graceful outline of the 
Isle of May, — which was the shrine of the martyred 
St. Adrian, — and the lonely, wave-beaten Bass Rock, 
with its millions of seagulls and solan-geese. Busy 
Leith and picturesque Newhaven and every little village 



>^.'> GR^VY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xix 

iiuman inincl from the bondage of error ; to the ministry 
of the beautiful, — and thus to the advancement of the 
human race in material comfort, in gentleness of thought, 
in charity of conduct, in refinement of manners, and in 
that spiritual exaltation by which, and only by which, 
the true progress of mankind is at once accomplished 
and proclaimed. 

But the dark has come, and this Edinburgh ramble 
shall end with the picture that closed its own magnifi- 
cent day. You are standing on the rocky summit of 
Arthur's Seat. From that superb mountain peak your 
gaze takes in the whole capital, together with the country 

in every direction ^^ty^'^a&feoH'^^^"'^- ^^^^^^ evening 
is uncommonly clear, v ';;i,^A;'' !^'i''west dense masses of 
black cloud are thiclTl'^^DiiodjHiijxjtfi each other, through 
which the sun is sinking, red and sullen with menace 
of the storm Elsewhere and overhead the sky is 
crystal, and of a pale, delicate blue, A cold wind blows 
briskly from the east and sweeps a million streamers of 
white smoke in turbulent panic aver the darkening roofs 
of the city, far below. In the north the lovely Lomond 
Hills are distinctly visible across the dusky level of the 
Forth, which stretches away toward the ocean, one 
broad sheet of glimmering steel, — its margin indented 
with many a graceful -bay, and the little islands that 
adorn it shining like stones of amethyst set in polished 
flint. A few brown sails are visible, dotting the waters, 
and far to the east appears the graceful outline of the 
Isle of May, — which was the shrine of the martyred 
St. Adrian, — and the lonely, wave-beaten Bass Rock, 
with its millions of seagulls and solan-geese. Busy 
Leith and picturesque Newhaven and every little village 



1 




S^. Giles's, froDi the Liuvn Market. 



264 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xix 

on the coast is sharply defined in the frosty light. At 
your feet is St. Leonards, with the tiny cottage of 
Jeanie Deans. Yonder, in the south, are the gray ruins 
of Craigmillar Castle, once the favourite summer home 
of the Queen of Scots, now open to sun and rain, moss- 
grown and desolate, and swept by every wind that blows. 
More eastward the eye lingers upon Carberry Hill, 
where Mary surrendered herself to her nobles, just 
before the romantic episode of Loch Leven Castle ; 
and far beyond that height the sombre fields, intersected 
by green hawthorn hedges and many-coloured with the 
various hues of pasture and harvest, stretch away to 
the hills of Lammermoor and the valleys of Tweed and 
Esk. Darker and darker grow the gathering shadows 
of the gloaming. The lights begin to twinkle in the 
city streets. The echoes of the rifles die away in the 
Hunter's Bog. A piper far off is playing the plaintive 
music of TJie Blue Bells of Scotland. And as your 
steps descend the crag, the rising moon, now nearly 
at the full, shines through the gauzy mist and hangs 
above the mountain like a shield of gold upon the 
towered citadel of night. 



CHAPTER XX 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 




[ORE than a century has passed since 
Walter Scott was born — a poet destined 
to exercise a profound, far-reaching, per- 
manent influence upon the feelings of the 
human race, and thus to act a conspicuous 
part in its moral and spiritual development and guidance. 
To the greatness of his mind, the nobility of his spirit, 
and the beauty of his life there is abundant testimony 
in his voluminous and diversified writings, and in his 
ample and honest biography. Everybody who reads 
has read something from the pen of Scott, or some- 
thing commemorative of him, and in every mind to 
which his name is known it is known as the synonym 
of great faculties and wonderful achievement. There 
must have been enormous vitality of spirit, prodigious 
power of intellect, irresistible charm of personality, and 
lovable purity of moral nature in the man whom thou- 
sands that never saw him living, — men and women of a 
later age and different countries, — know and remem- 
ber and love as Sir Walter Scott. Others have writ- 
ten greatly. Milton, Dryden, Addison, Pope, Cowper, 
Johnson, Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Landor, 

265 



266 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



— these are only a few of the imperial names that can- 
not die. But these names live in the world's respect. 
The name of Scott lives also in its affection. What 
other name of the past in English literature, — unless 
it be that of Shakespeare, — arouses such a deep and 
sweet feeling of affectionate interest, gentle pleasure, 

gratitude, and 
reverential love.-* 
The causes of 
Sir Walter Scott's 
ascendency are 
to be found in 
the goodness of 
his heart ; the 
integrity of his 
conduct ; the ro- 
mantic and pic- 
turesque ac- 
cessories and 
atmosphere of his 
life ; the fertile 
brilliancv of his 
literary execu- 
tion ; the charm 
that he exercises, 
both as man and 
artist, over the imagination ; the serene, tranquillising 
spirit of his works ; and, above all, the buoyancy, the 
happy freedom, of his genius. He was not simply an 
intellectual power ; he was also a human and gentle 
comforter. He wielded an immense mental force, but 
he always wielded it for good, and always with ten- 




Sir Walter Scott. 



XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 26/ 

derness. It is impossible to conceive of his ever having 
done a wrong act, or of any contact with his influence 
that would not inspire the wish to be virtuous and 
noble. The scope of his sympathy was as broad as the 
weakness and the need are of the human race. He 
understood the hardship, the dilemma, in the moral con- 
dition of mankind : he wished people to be patient and 
cheerful, and he tried to make them so. His writings 
are full of sweetness and cheer, and they contain nothing 
that is morbid, — nothing that tends toward surrender 
and misery. He did not sequester himself in mental 
pride, but simply and sturdily, through years of conscien- 
tious toil, he employed the faculties of a strong, tender, 
gracious genius for the good of his fellow-creatures. 
The world loves him because he is worthy to be loved, 
and because he has lightened the burden of its care 
and augmented the sum of its happiness. 

Certain differences and confusions of opinion have 
arisen from the consideration of his well-known views 
as to the literary art, together with his equally well- 
known ambition to take and to maintain the rank and 
estate of a country squire. As an artist he had ideals 
that he was never able to fulfil. As a man, and one who 
was influenced by imagination, taste, patriotism, family 
pride, and a profound belief in established monarchical 
institutions, it was natural that he should wish to found 
a grand and beautiful home for himself and his posterity. 
A poet is not the less a poet because he thinks modestly 
of his writings and practically knows and admits that 
there is something else in the world beside literature ; 
or because he happens to want his dinner and a roof to 
cover him. In trying to comprehend a great man, a 



268 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

good method is to look at his life as a whole, and not to 
deduce petty inferences from the distorted interpreta- 
tion of petty details. Sir Walter Scott's conduct of life, 
like the character out of which it sprang, was simple 
and natural. In all that he did you may perceive the 
influence of imagination acting upon the finest reason ; 
the involuntary consciousness of reserve power ; habitual 
deference to the voice of duty ; an aspiring and pictur- 
esque plan of artistic achievement and personal distinc- 
tion ; and deep knowledge of the world. If ever there 
was a man who lived to be and not to seem, that man 
was Sir Walter Scott. He made no pretensions. He 
claimed nothing, but he simply and earnestly earned all. 
His means were the oldest and the best ; self-respect, 
hard work, and fidelity to duty. The development of 
his nature was slow, but it was thorough and it was 
salutary. He was not hampered by precocity and he 
was not spoiled by conceit. He acted according to him- 
self, honouring his individuality and obeying the inward 
monitor of his genius. But, combined with the delicate 
instinct of a gentleman, he had the wise insight, fore- 
sight, and patience of a philosopher ; and therefore he 
respected the individuality of others, the established 
facts of life, and the settled conventions of society. His 
mind was neither embittered by revolt nor sickened by 
delusion. Having had the good fortune to be born in a 
country in which a right plan of government prevails, — 
the idea of the family, the idea of the strong central 
power at the head, with all other powers subordinated 
to it, — he felt no impulse toward revolution, no desire 
to regulate all things anew ; and he did not suffer per- 
turbation from the feverish sense of being surrounded 



XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 269 

with uncertainty and endangered by exposure to popular 
caprice. During the period of immaturity, and notwith- 
standing physical weakness and pain, his spirit was kept 
equable and cheerful, not less by the calm environment 
of a permanent civilisation than by the clearness of his 
perceptions and the sweetness of his temperament. In 
childhood and youth he endeared himself to all who 
came near him, winning affection by inherent goodness 
and charm. In riper years that sweetness was rein- 
forced by great sagacity, which took broad views of in- 
dividual and social life ; so that both by knowledge and 
by impulse he was a serene and happy man. 

The quality that first impresses the student of the 
character and the writings of Sir Walter Scott is truth- 
fulness. He was genuine. Although a poet, he suf- 
fered no torment from vague aspirations. Although 
once, and miserably, a disappointed lover, he permitted 
no morbid repining. Although the most successful 
author of his time, he displayed no egotism. To the 
end of his days he was frank and simple, — not indeed 
sacrificing the reticence of a dignified, self-reliant nat- 
ure, but suffering no blight from success, and wearing 
illustrious honours with spontaneous, unconscious grace. 
This truthfulness, the consequence and the sign of 
integrity and of great breadth of intellectual vision, 
moulded Sir Walter Scott's ambition and stamped the 
practical results of his career. A striking illustration 
of this is seen in his first adventure in literature. The 
poems originally sprang from the spontaneous action of 
the poetic impulse and faculty ; but they were put forth 
modestly, in order that the author might guide himself 
according to the response of the public mind. He 



2/0 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xx 

knew that he might fail as an author, but for failure of 
that sort, although he was intensely ambitious, he had 
no dread. There would always remain to him the career 
of private duty and the life of a gentleman. This view 
of him gives the key to his character and explains his 
conduct. Neither amid the experimental vicissitudes of 
his youth, nor amid the labours, achievements, and 
splendid honours of his manhood, did he ever place the 
imagination above the conscience, or brilliant writing 
above virtuous living, or art and fame above morality 
and religion. " I have been, perhaps, the most volum- 
inous author of the day," he said, toward the close of his 
life; "and it is a comfort to me to think that I have 
tried to unsettle no man's faith, to corrupt no man's 
principles, and that I have written nothing which, on 
my deathbed, I should wish blotted." When at last he 
lay upon that deathbed the same thought animated and 
sustained him. "My dear," he said, to Lockhart, "be 
a good man, be virtuous, be religious — be a good man. 
Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come 
to lie here." The mind which thus habitually dwelt 
upon goodness as the proper object of human ambition 
and the chief merit of human life was not likely to 
vaunt itself on its labours or to indulge any save a 
modest and chastened pride in its achievements. 

And this view of him explains the affectionate rever- 
ence with which the memory of Sir Walter Scott is 
cherished. He was pre-eminently a type of the great- 
ness that is associated with virtue. But his virtue was 
not decorum and it was not goodyism. He does not, with 
Addison, represent elegant austerity ; and he does not, 
with Montgomery, represent amiable tameness. His 




-^, 






^^lii-l^i -^'T"^'-- ■^■'-'^-^ 



Edinburgh Castle. 



2/2 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

goodness was not insipid. It does not humiliate ; it 
gladdens. It is ardent with heart and passion. It is 
brilliant with imagination. It is fragrant with taste and 
grace. It is alert, active, and triumphant with splendid 
mental achievements and practical good deeds. And it 
is the goodness of a great poet, — the poet of natural 
beauty, of romantic legend, of adventure, of chivalry, of 
life in its heyday of action and its golden glow of 
pageantry and pleasure. It found expression, and it 
wields invincible and immortal power, through an art 
whereof the charm is the masfic of sunrise and sunset, 
the sombre, holy silence of mountains, the pensive 
solitude of dusky woods, the pathos of ancient, ivy- 
mantled ruins, and ocean's solemn, everlasting chant. 
Great powers have arisen in English literature ; but no 
romance has hushed the voice of the author of Waverley^ 
and no harp has drowned the music of the Minstrel of 
the North. 

The publication of a new book by Sir Walter Scott is 
a literary event of great importance. The time has 
been when the announcement of such a novelty would 
have roused the reading public as with the sound of a 
trumpet. That sensation, familiar in the early part of 
the present century, is possible no more. Yet there 
are thousands of persons all over the world through 
whose hearts the thought of it sends a thrill of joy. 
The illustrious author of Marmio7i and of Waverley 
passed away in 1832 : and now (1890), at the distance of 
fifty-eight years, his private JoiLvnal is made a public 
possession. If is the bestowal of a great privilege and 
benefit. It is like hearing the voice of a deeply-loved 
and long-lamented friend, suddenly speaking from beyond 
the grave. 



XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 273 

In literary history the position of Scott is unique. A 
few other authors, indeed, might be named toward 
whom the general feeling was once exceedingly cordial, 
but in no other case has the feeling entirely lasted. In 
the case of Scott it endures in undiminished fervour. 
There are, of course, persons to whom his works are not 
interesting and to whom his personality is not signifi- 
cant. Those persons are the votaries of the photo- 
graph, who wish to see upon the printed page the same 
sights that greet their vision in the streets and in the 
houses to which they are accustomed. But those prosy 
persons constitute only a single class of the public. 
People in general are impressible through the romantic 
instinct that is a part of human nature. To that in- 
stinct Scott's writings were addressed, and also to the 
heart that commonly goes with it. The spirit that re- 
sponds to his genius is universal and perennial. Caprices 
of taste will reveal themselves and will vanish ; fashions 
will rise and will fall; but these mutations touch nothing 
that is elemental and they will no more displace Scott 
than they will displace Shakespeare. 

ThQ Journal of Sir Walter Scott, valuable for its copi- 
ous variety of thought, humour, anecdote, and chronicle, 
is precious, most of all, for the confirmatory light that 
it casts upon the character of its writer. It has long 
been known that Scott's nature was exceptionally noble, 
that his patience was beautiful, that his endurance was 
heroic. These pages disclose to his votaries that he 
surpassed even the highest ideal of him that their 
affectionate partiality has formed. The period that it 
covers was that of his adversity and decline. He began 
it on November 20, 1825, in his town house, No. 39 



2/4 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

Castle street, Edinburgh, and he continued it, with 
almost daily entries, — except for various sadly signifi- 
cant breaks, after July 1830, — until April 16, 1832. 
Five months later, on September 21, he was dead. He 
opened it with the expression of a regret that he had 
not kept a regular journal during the whole of his life. 
He had just seen some chapters of Byron's vigorous, 
breezy, off-hand memoranda, and the perusal of those 
inspiriting pages had revived in his mind the long- 
cherished, often-deferred plan of keeping a diary. '' I 
have myself lost recollection," he says, ''of much that 
was interesting, and I have deprived my family and the 
public of some curious information by not carrying this 
resolution into effect." Having once begun the work he 
steadily perseyered in it, and evidently he found a com- 
fort in its companionship. He wrote directly, and there- 
fore fluently, setting down exactly what was in his 
mind, from day to day ; but^ as he had a well-stored 
and well-ordered mind, he wrote with reason and taste, 
seldom about petty matters, and never in the strain of 
insipid babble that egotistical scribblers mistake for the 
spontaneous flow of nature. The facts that he recorded 
were mostly material facts, and the reflections that he 
added, whether serious or humorous, were important. 
Sometimes a bit of history would glide into the current 
of the chronicle ; sometimes a fragment of a ballad ; 
sometimes an analytic sketch of character, subtle, terse, 
clear, and obviously true ; sometimes a memory of the 
past ; sometimes a portraiture of incidents in the pres- 
ent ; sometimes a glimpse of political life, a word about 
painting, a reference to music or the stage, an anecdote, 
a tale of travel, a trait of social manners, a precept upon 



XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 2/5 

conduct, or a thought upon reUgion and the destiny of 
mankind. There was no pretence of order and there 
was no consciousness of an audience ; yet the Journal 
unconsciously assumed a symmetrical form ; and largely 
because of the spontaneous operation of its author's fine 
literary instinct it became a composition worthy of the 
best readers. It is one of the saddest and one of the 
strongest books ever written. 

The original manuscript of this remarkable work is 
contained in two volumes, bound in vellum, each volume 
being furnished with a steel clasp that can be fastened. 
The covers are slightly tarnished by time. The paper 
is yellow with age. The handwriting is fine, cramped, 
and often obscure. "This hand of mine," writes Scott 
(vol. i. page 386), "gets to be like a kitten's scratch, and 
will require much deciphering, or, what may be as well 
for the writer, cannot be deciphered at all. I am sure 
I cannot read it myself." The first volume is full of 
writing ; the second about half full. Toward the end 
the record is almost illegible. Scott was then at Rome, 
on that melancholy, mistaken journey whereby it had 
been hoped, but hoped in vain, that he would recover 
his health. The last entry that he made is this unfin- 
ished sentence : " We slept reasonably, but on the next 

morning ." It is not known that he ever wrote a 

word after that time. Lockhart, who had access to his 
papers, made some use of the Journal, in his Life of 
Scott, which is one of the best biographies in our lan- 
guage ; but the greater part of it was withheld from 
publication till a more auspicious time for its perfect 
candour of speech. To hold those volumes and to look 
upon their pages, — so eloquent of the great author's in- 



2/6 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xx 

dustry, so significant of his character, so expressive of 
his inmost soul, — was ahiiost to touch the hand of the 
Minstrel himself, to see his smile, and to hear his voice. 
Now that they have fulfilled their purpose, and imparted 
their inestimable treasure to the world, they are re- 
stored to the ebony cabinet at Abbotsford, there to be 
treasured among the most precious relics of the past. 
*'It is the saddest house in Scotland," their editor, 
David Douglas, said to me, when we were walking 
together upon the Braid Hills, ''for to my fancy every 
stone in it is cemented with tears." Sad or glad, it is a 
shrine to which reverent pilgrims find their way from 
every quarter of the earth, and it will be honoured and 
cherished forever. 

The great fame of Scott had been acquired by the 
time he began to write his Journal, and it rested upon a 
broad foundation of solid achievement. He was fifty- 
four years old, having been born August 15, 177 1, the 
same year in which Smollett died. He had been an 
author for about thirty years, — his first publication, a 
translation of Biirger's Lenore, having appeared in 1796, 
the same year that was darkened by the death of Robert 
Burns. His social eminence also had been established. 
He had been sheriff of Selkirk for twenty-five years. 
He had been for twenty years a clerk of the Court of 
Session. He had been for five years a baronet, having 
received that rank from King George the Fourth, who 
always loved and admired him, in 1820. He had been 
for fourteen years the owner of Abbotsford, which he 
bought in 181 1, occupied in 181 2, and completed in 
1824. He was yet to write JVoodstock, the six tales 
called T/ie CJironiclcs of the Canongate, The Fair Maid 




The Canongate Tolbooth. 



2/8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD ciiAr. 

of Perth, Ajine of Geierstehi, Count Robert of Paris, 
Castle Da7igerous, the Life of Napoleon, and the lovely 
Stories from the History of Scotland. All those works, 
together with many essays and reviews, were produced 
by him between 1825 and 1832, while also he was main- 
taining a considerable correspondence, doing his official 
duties, writing his Journal, and carrying a suddenly 
imposed load of debt, — which finally his herculean 
labours paid, — amounting to ^130,000. But between 
1805 and 1 817 he had written The Lay of tJie Last Min- 
strel, Ballads and Lyrical Pieces, Marmion, The Lady of 
the Lake, The Vision of Don Roderick, Rokeby, The L.ord 
of the Isles, The Field of Waterloo, and Harold the Daunt- 
less, — thus creating a great and diversified body of 
poetry, then in a new school and a new style, in which, 
although he has often been imitated, he never has been 
equalled. Between 18 14 and 1825 he had likewise pro- 
duced Wavcrlcy, Guy Mannering, The Antiquary, Old 
Mortality, The Black Divarf, Rob Roy, The Heart of 
MidlotJiian, A Legend of Montrose, The Bride of Lam- 
mcrnioor, Ivanhoe, The Monastery, The Abbot, Kenil- 
ivorth. The Pirate, The Fortunes of Nigel, Peveril of the 
Peak, Qucjitin Durward, St. Ronans Well, Redgauntlet, 
The Betrothed, and The Talisman. This vast body of 
fiction was also a new creation in literature, for the 
English novel prior to Scott's time was the novel of 
manners, as chiefly represented by the works of Rich- 
ardson, Fielding, and Smollett. That admirable author. 
Miss Jane Porter, had, indeed, written the Scottish 
Chiefs (1809), in which the note of imagination, as ap- 
plied to the treatment of historical fact and character, 
rings true and clear ; and probably that excellent book 



XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 2/9 

should be remembered as the beginning of English his- 
torical romance. Scott himself said that it was the 
parent, in his mind, of the Waverley Novels. But he 
surpassed it. Another and perhaps a deeper impulse 
to the composition of those novels was the conscious- 
ness, when Lord Byron, by the publication of CJiilde 
Harold {thQ first and second cantos, in 1812), suddenly 
checked or eclipsed his immediate popularity as a poet, 
that it would be necessary for him to strike out a new 
path. He had begun Waverley in 1805 and thrown the 
fragment aside. He took it up again in 18 14, wrought 
upon it for three weeks and finished it, and so began 
the career of *' the Great Unknown." The history of 
literature presents scarce a comparable example of such 
splendid industry sustained upon such a high level of 
endeavour, animated by such glorious genius, and re- 
sultant in such a noble and beneficent fruition. The 
life of Balzac, whom his example inspired, and who may 
be accounted the greatest of French writers since Vol- 
taire, is perhaps the only life that drifts suggestively 
into the scholar's memory, as he thinks of the prodigious 
labours of Sir Walter Scott. 

During the days of his prosperity Scott maintained 
his manor at Abbotsford and his town-house in Edin- 
burgh, and he frequently migrated from one to the 
other, dispensing a liberal hospitality at both. He was 
not one of those authors who think that there is noth- 
ing in the world but pen and ink. He esteemed living 
to be more important than writing about it, and the 
development of the soul to be a grander result than 
the production of a book. ** I hate an author that's 
all author," said Byron ; and in this virtuous sentiment 



280 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

Scott participated. His character and conduct, his un- 
affected modesty as to his own works, his desire to 
found a great house and to maintain a stately rank 
among the land-owners of his country, and as a son of 
chivalry, have, for this reason, been greatly misunder- 
stood by dull people. They never, indeed, would have 
found the least fault with him if he had not become a 
bankrupt ; for the mouth of every dunce is stopped by 
practical success. When he got into debt, though, it 
was discovered that he ought to have had a higher 
ambition than the wish to maintain a place among the 
landed gentry of Scotland ; and even though he ulti- 
mately paid his debts, — literally working himself to 
death to do it, — he was not forgiven by that class of 
censors ; and to some extent their chatter of paltry dis- 
paragement still survives. While he was rich, however, 
his halls were thronged with fashion, rank, and renown. 
Edinburgh, still the stateliest city on which the sun 
looks down, must have been, in the last days of George 
the Third, a place of peculiar beauty, opulence, and 
social brilliancy. Scott, whose father was a Writer to 
the Signet, and who derived his descent from a good 
old Border family, the Scotts of Harden, had, from his 
youth, been accustomed to refined society and elegant 
surroundings. He was born and reared a gentleman, 
and a gentleman he never ceased to be. His father's 
house was No. 25 George Square, then an aristocratic 
quarter, now somewhat fallen into the sere and yellow. 
In that house, as a boy, he saw some of the most dis- 
tinguished men of the age. In after years, when his 
fortunes were ripe and his fame as a poet had been 
established, he drew around himself a kindred class of 



XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 28 1 

associates. The record of his life blazes with splendid 
names. As a lad of fifteen, in 1786, he saw Burns, 
then twenty-seven, and in the heyday of fame ; and he 
also saw Dugald Stewart, seventeen years his senior. 
Lord Jeffrey was his contemporary and friend, only two 
years younger than himself. With Henry Mackenzie, 
"the Addison of Scotland," — born in the first year 
of the last Jacobite rebellion, and therefore twenty-six 
years his senior, — he lived on terms of cordial friend- 
ship. David Hume, who died when Scott was but five 
years old, was one of the great celebrities of his early 
days ; and doubtless Scott saw the Calton Hill when it 
was, as Jane Porter remembered it, *'a vast green slope, 
with no other buildings breaking the line of its smooth 
and magnificent brow but Hume's monument on one 
part and the astronomical observatory on the other." 
He knew John Home, the author of Douglas, who was 
his senior by forty-seven years ; and among his miscel- 
laneous prose writings there is an effective review of 
Home's works, which was written for the Quarterly, 
in March 1827. Among the actors his especial friends 
were John Philip Kemble, Mrs. Siddons, the elder 
Charles Mathews, John Bannister, and Daniel Terry. 
He knew Yates also, and he saw Miss Foote, Fanny 
Kemble, and the Mathews of our day as ''a clever, 
rather forward lad." Goethe was his correspondent. 
Byron was his friend and fervent admirer. Words- 
worth and Moore were among his visitors and espe- 
cial favourites. The aged Dr. Adam Ferguson was 
one of his intimates. Hogg, when in trouble, always 
sought him, and always was helped and comforted. He 
was the literary sponsor for Thomas Campbell. He 



282 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

met Madame D'Arblay, who was nineteen years his 
senior, when she was seventy-eight years old ; and the 
author of Evelina talked with him, in the presence of 
old Samuel Rogers, then sixty-three, about her father, 
Dr. Burney, and the days of Dr. Johnson. He was 
honoured with the cordial regard of the great Duke of 
Wellington, a contemporary, being only two years his 
senior. He knew Croker, Haydon, Chantrey, Land- 
seer, Sydney Smith, and Theodore Hook. He read 
Viviaji Grey as a new publication and saw Disraeli 
as a beginner. Coleridge he met and marvelled at. 
Mrs. Coutts, who had been Harriet Mellon, the singer, 
and who became the Duchess of St. Albans, was a 
favourite with him. He knew and liked that caustic 
critic William Gifford. His relations with Sir Hum- 
phry Davy, seven years his senior, were those of kind- 
ness. He had a great regard for Lord Castlereagh 
and Lord Melville. He liked Robert Southey, and 
he cherished a deep affection for the poet Crabbe, 
who was twenty-three years older than himself, and 
who died in the same year. Of Sir George Beaumont, 
the fond friend and wise patron of Wordsworth, who 
died in February 1827, Scott wrote that he was ''by 
far the most sensible and pleasing man I ever knew." 
Amid a society such as is indicated by those names 
Scott passed his life. The brilliant days of the Can- 
ongate indeed were gone, when all those wynds and 
closes that fringe the historic avenue from the Castle 
to Holyrood were as clean as wax, and when the love- 
liest ladies of Scotland dwelt amongst them, and were 
borne in their chairs from one house of festivity to 
another. But New street, once the home of Lord 



XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 283 

Karnes, still retained some touch of its ancient finery. 
St. John street, where once lived Lord Monboddo and 
his beautiful daughter, Miss Burnet (immortalised by 
Burns), and where (at No. 10) Ballantyne often con- 
voked admirers of the unknown author of Waverley, was 
still a cleanly place. Alison Square, George Square, 
Buccleuch Place, and kindred quarters were still ten- 
anted by the polished classes of the stately, old-time 
society of Edinburgh. The movement northward had 
begun, but as yet it was inconsiderable. In those old 
drawing-rooms Scott was an habitual visitor, as also 
he was in many of the contiguous county manors, — 
in Seton House, Pinkie House, Blackford, Ravelstone, 
Craigcrook, and Caroline Park, and wherever else the 
intellect, beauty, rank, and fashion of the Scottish capi- 
tal assembled ; and it is certain that after his marriage, 
in December 1797, with Miss Charlotte Margaret Car- 
penter, the scenes of hospitality and of elegant festival 
were numerous and gay, and were peopled with all that 
was brightest in the ancient city, at first beneath his 
roof-tree in Castle street and later beneath his turrets 
of Abbotsford. 

There came a time, however, when the fabric of 
Scott's fortunes was to be shattered and his imperial 
genius bowed into the dust. He had long been a busi- 
ness associate with Constable, his publisher, and also 
with Ballantyne, his printer. The publishing business 
failed and they were ruined together. It has long been 
customary to place the blame for that catastrophe on 
Constable alone. Mr. Douglas, who has edited the 
Journal with characteristic discretion and taste, records 
his opinion that "the three parties, printer, publisher, 



284 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

and author, were equal sharers in the imprudences that 
led to the disaster;" and he directs attention to the 
fact that the charge that Constable ruined Scott was 
not made during the lifetime of either. It matters 
little now in what way the ruin was induced. Mis- 
management caused it, and not misdeed. There was a 
blunder, but there was no fraud. The honour of all the 
men concerned stands vindicated before the world. 
Moreover, the loss was retrieved and the debt was paid, 
— Scott's share of it in full : the other shares in part. 
It is to the period of this ordeal that Scott's Journal 
mainly relates. Great though he had been in prosperity, 
he was to show himself greater amid the storms of dis- 
aster and affliction. The earlier pages of the diary are 
cheerful, vigorous, and confident. The mind of the 
writer is in no alarm. Presently the sky changes and 
the tempest breaks ; and from that time onward the 
reader beholds a spectacle, of indomitable will, calm 
resolution, inflexible purpose, patient endurance, stead- 
fast industry, and productive genius, that is sublime. 
Many facts of living interest and many gems of subtle 
thought and happy phrase are found in his daily record. 
The observations on immortality are in a fine strain. 
The remarks on music, on dramatic poetry, on the oper- 
ation of the mental faculties, on painting, and on na- 
tional characteristics, are freighted with suggestive 
thought. But the noble presence of the man over- 
shadows even his best words. He lost his fortune in 
December 1825. His wife died in May 1826, On the 
pages that immediately follow his note of this bereave- 
ment Scott has written occasional words that no one 
can read unmoved, and that no one who has suffered 
can read without a pang that is deeper than tears. 



XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 285 

But his spirit was slow to break. ** Duty to God and 
to my children," he said, " must teach me patience." 
Once he speaks of '' the loneliness of these watches of 
the night." Not until his debts were paid and his 
duties fulfilled would that great soul yield. " I may 
be bringing on some serious disease," he remarks, "by 
working thus hard ; if I had once justice done to other 
folks, I do not much care, only I would not like to suffer 
long pain." A little later the old spirit shows itself : 
''I do not like to have it thought that there is any way 
in which I can be beaten. . . . Let us use the time 
and faculties which God has left us, and trust futurity 
to His guidance. ... I want to finish my task, 
and then good-night. I will never relax my labour in 
these affairs either for fear of pain or love of life. I will 
die a free man, if hard working will do it. . . . My 
spirits are neither low nor high — grave, I think, and 
quiet — a complete twilight of the mind. . . . God 
help — but rather God bless — man must help himself. 
. . . The best is, the long halt will arrive at last and 
cure all. ... It is my dogged humour to yield 
little to external circumstances. ... I shall never 
see the three-score and ten, and shall be summed up at 
a discount. No help for it, and no matter either." In 
the mood of mingled submission and resolve denoted by 
these sentences (which occur at long intervals in the 
story), he wrought at his task until it was finished. 
By Woodstock he earned ^8000 ; by the Life of Na- 
poleon ^18,000; by other writings still other sums. 
The details of his toil appear day by day in these simple 
pages, tragic through all their simplicity. He was a 
heart-broken man from the hour when his wife died, but 



286 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xx 

he sustained himself by force of will and sense of honour, 
and he endured and worked till the last, without a mur- 
mur ; and when he had done his task he laid down his 
pen and so ended. 

The lesson of Scott' sy<?//;7/<^/ is the most important 
lesson that experience can teach. It is taught in two 
words : honour and duty. Nothing is more obvious, from 
the nature and environment and the consequent condi- 
tion of the human race, than the fact that this world is 
not, and was not intended to be, a place of settled hap- 
piness. All human beings have troubles, and as the 
years pass away those troubles become more numerous, 
more heavy, and more hard to bear. The ordeal through 
which humanity is passing is an ordeal of discipline for 
spiritual development. To live in honour, to labour with 
steadfast industry, and to endure with cheerful patience 
is to be victorious. Whatever in literature will illus- 
trate this doctrine, and whatever in human example will 
commend and enforce it, is of transcendent value ; and 
that value is inherent in the example of Sir Walter 
Scott. 




CHAPTER XXI 



ELEGIAC MEMORIALS IN EDINBURGH 




NE denotement, among many, of a genial 
change, a relaxation of the old ecclesias- 
tical austerity long prevalent in Scotland, 
is perceptible in the lighter character of 
her modern sepulchral monuments. In 
the old churchyard of St. Michael, at Dumfries, the 
burial-place of Burns, there is a hideous, dismal mass of 
misshapen, weather-beaten masonry, the mere aspect of 
which, before any of its gruesome inscriptions are read, 
is a rebuke to hope and an alarm to despair. Thus the 
religionists of old tried to make death terrible. Much of 
this same order of abhorrent architecture, the ponderous 
exponent of immitigable woe, may be found in the old 
Grayfriars churchyard in Edinburgh, and in that of the 
Canongate. But the pilgrim to the Dean cemetery and 
the Warriston, both comparatively modern, and beauti- 
fully situated at different points on the north side of the 
Water of Leith, finds them adorned with every grace 
that can hallow the repose of the dead, or soothe the 
grief, or mitigate the fear, or soften the bitter resentment 
of the living. Hope, and not despair, is the spirit of the 

287 



288 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

new epoch in religion, and it is hope not merely for a 
sect but for all mankind. 

The mere physical loveliness of those cemeteries may 
well tempt you to explore them, but no one will neglect 
them who cares for the storied associations of the past. 
Walking in the Dean, on an afternoon half-cloudy and 
half-bright, when the large trees that guard its western 
limit and all the masses of foliage in the dark ravine of 
the Leith were softly rustling in the balmy summer 
wind, while overhead and far around the solemn cawing 
of the rooks mingled sleepily with the twitter of the 
sparrows, I thought, as I paced the sunlit aisles, that 
Nature could nowhere show a scene of sweeter peace. 
In this gentle solitude has been laid to its everlast- 
ing rest all that could die of some of the greatest 
leaders of thought in modern Scotland. It was no 
common experience to muse beside the tomb of Francis 
Jeffrey, the once formidable Lord Jeffrey of TJie Edin- 
burgh Reviezv. He lies buried near the great wall on 
the west side of the Dean cemetery, with his wife beside 
him. A flat, oblong stone tomb, imposed upon a large 
stone pedestal and overshadowed with tall trees, marks 
the place, on one side of which is written that once- 
famous and dreaded name, now spoken with indifference 
or not spoken at all : " Francis Jeffrey. Born Oct. 23, 
1773. Died Jan. 25, 1850." On the end of the tomb 
is a medallion portrait of Jeffrey, in bronze. It is a 
profile, and it shows a symmetrical head, a handsome 
face, severe, refined, frigid, and altogether it is the de- 
notement of a personality remarkable for the faculty of 
taste and the instinct of decorum, though not for creative 
power. Close by Lord Jeffrey, a little to the south, are 



XXI ELEGIAC MEMORIALS IN EDINBURGH 289 

buried Sir Archibald Alison, the historian of Europe, 
and Henry Cockburn, the great jurist. Combe, the 
philosopher, rests near the south front of the wall that 
bisects this cemetery from east to west. Not far from 
the memorials of these famous persons is a shaft of 
honour to Lieutenant John Irving, who was one of the 
companions of Sir John Franklin, and who perished 
amid the Polar ice in King William's Land, in 1848-49. 
In another part of the ground a tall cross commem- 
orates David Scott, the painter [1806- 1849], presenting 
a superb effigy of his head, in one of the most animated 
pieces of bronze that have copied human life. Against 
the eastern wall, on the terrace overlooking the ravine 
and the rapid Water of Leith, stands the tombstone of 
John Blackwood, '' Editor of Blackzvood' s Magazine for 
thirty-three years : Died at Strathtyrum, 29th Oct. 
1879. Age 60." This inscription, cut upon a broad 
white marble, with scroll-work at the base, and set 
against the wall, is surmounted with a coat of arms, in 
gray stone, bearing the motto, "Per vias rectas." Many 
other eminent names may be read in this garden of 
death ; but most interesting of all, and those that most 
of all I sought, are the names of Wilson and Aytoun. 
Those worthies were buried close together, almost in 
the centre of the cemetery. The grave of the great 
'' Christopher North " is marked by a simple shaft 
of Aberdeen granite, beneath a tree, and it bears only 
this inscription: "John Wilson, Professor of Moral 
Philosophy. Born i8th of May, 1785. Died 3d April, 
1854." Far more elaborate is the white marble monu- 
ment, — a square tomb, with carvings of recessed Gothic 
windows on its sides, supporting a tall cross, — erected 



290 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



to the memory of Aytoun and of his wife, who was 
Wilson's daughter. The inscriptions tell their sufficient 
story : " Jane Emily Wilson, beloved wife of William 
Edmonstoune Aytoun. Obiit 15 April, 1859." "Here 
is laid to rest William Edmonstoune Aytoun, D.C.L., 
Oxon., Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature in 
the University of Edinburgh. Sheriff of Orkney and 
Zetland. Born at Edinburgh, 21st June, 18 13. Died 
at Blackhills, Elgin, 4th August, 1865. 'Waiting for 
the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.' i Cor. i. 7." So 
they sleep, the poets, wits, and scholars that were once 
so bright in genius, so gay in spirit, so splendid in 
achievement, so vigorous in affluent and brilliant life ! 
It is the old story, and it teaches the old moral. 

Warriston, not more beautiful than Dean, is perhaps 
more beautiful in situation ; certainly it commands a 
more beautiful prospect. The traveller will visit War- 
riston for the sake of Alexander Smith, — remembering 
the Life Drama, the City Poems, Edzvin of Deira, Al- 
fred Hagarfs Household, and A Summer iji Skye. The 
poet lies in the northeast corner of the ground, at the 
foot of a large lona cross, which is bowered by a 
chestnut-tree. Above him the green sod is like a carpet 
of satin. The cross is thickly carved with laurel, thistle, 
and holly, and it bears upon its front the face of the 
poet, in bronze, and the harp that betokens his art. It 
is a bearded face, having small, refined features, a 
slightly pouted, sensitive mouth, and being indicative 
more of nervous sensibility than of rugged strength. 
The inscription gives simply his name and dates : 
'' Alexander Smith, Poet and Essayist. Born at Kilmar- 
nock, 31st December, 1829. Died at Wardie, 5th Janu- 



XXI ELEGIAC MEMORIALS IN EDINBURGH 29 1 

ary, 1867. Erected by some of his personal Friends." 
Standing by his grave, at the foot of this cross, you can 
gaze straight away southward to Arthur's Seat, and be- 
hold the whole line of imperial Edinburgh at a glance, 
from the Calton Hill to the Castle. It is such a spot as 
he would have chosen for his sepulchre, — face to face 
with the city that he dearly loved. Near him on the 
east wall appears a large slab of Aberdeen granite, 
to mark the grave of still another Scottish worthy, 
"James Ballantine, Poet. Born nth June, 1808. Died 
i8th Dec, 1877." And midway along the slope of the 
northern terrace, a little eastward of the chapel, under 
a freestone monument bearing the butterfly that is 
Nature's symbol of immortality, you will see the grave 
of ''Sir James Young Simpson, Bart., M.D., D.C.L. 
Born 181 1. Died 1870." And if you are weary of 
thinking about the evanescence of the poets, you can re- 
flect that there was no exemption from the common lot 
even for one of the greatest physical benefactors of the 
human race. 

The oldest and the most venerable and mysterious of 
the cemeteries of Edinburgh is that of the Grayfriars. 
Irregular in shape and uneven in surface, it encircles its 
famous old church, in the haunted neighbourhood of the 
West Bow, and is itself hemmed in with many build- 
ings. More than four centuries ago this was the garden 
of the Monastery of the Grayfriars, founded by James 
the First, of Scotland, and thus it gets its name. The 
monastery disappeared long ago : the garden was turned 
into a graveyard in the time of Queen Mary Stuart, and 
by her order. The building, called the Old Church, 
dates back to 16 12, but it was burnt in 1845 and sub- 




Gray/riars Ckurc/zyard. 



CHAP. XXI ELEGIAC MEMORIALS IN EDINBURGH 293 

sequently restored. Here the National Covenant was 
subscribed, 1638, by the lords and by the people, and in 
this doubly consecrated ground are laid the remains of 
many of those heroic Covenanters who subsequently 
suffered death for conscience and their creed. There 
is a large book of The Epitaphs and Monumeittal hiscrip- 
tiojis in Grayfriars ChiircJiyard, made by James Brown, 
keeper of the grounds, and published in 1867. That 
record does not pretend to be complete, and yet it 
mentions no less than two thousand two hundred and 
seventy-one persons who are sepulchred in this place. 
Among those sleepers are Duncan Forbes, of Culloden ; 
Robert Mylne, who built a part of Holyrood Palace ; 
Sir George Mackenzie, the persecutor of the Covenan- 
ters ; Carstairs, the adviser of King William the Third ; 
Sir Adam Ferguson ; Henry Mackenzie ; Robertson and 
Tytler, the historians; Sir Walter Scott's father; and 
several of the relatives of Mrs. Siddons. Captain John 
Porteous, who was hanged in the Grass-market, by 
riotous citizens of Edinburgh, on the night of Sep- 
tember 7, 1736, and whose story is so vividly told in 
The Heart of Midlothian, was buried in the Grayfriars 
churchyard, "three dble. pace from the S. corner Chal- 
mers' tomb" — 1736. James Brown's record of the 
churchyard contains various particulars, quoted from 
the old church register. Of William Robertson, minis- 
ter of the parish, who died in 1745, we read that he 
''lies near the tree next Blackwood's ground." "Mr. 
Allan Ramsay," says the same quaint chronicle, "lies 5 
dble. paces southwest the blew stone : A poet : old age : 
Buried 9th January 1758." Christian Ross, his wife, 
who preceded the aged bard by fifteen years, lies in the 



294 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



same grave. Sir Walter Scott's father was laid there 
on April i8, 1799, and his daughter Anne was placed 
beside him in 180 1. In a letter addressed to his brother 
Thomas, in 18 19, Sir Walter wrote : "When poor Jack 
was buried in the Grayfriars churchyard, where my 
father and Anne lie, I thought their graves more en- 
croached upon than I liked to witness." The remains 
of the Regent Morton were, it is said, wrapped in a cloak 
and secretly buried there, at night,- — June 2, 1581, im- 
mediately after his execution, on that day, — low down 
toward the northern wall. The supposed grave of the 
scholar, historian, teacher, and superb Latin poet George 
Buchanan [''the elegant Buchanan," Dr. Johnson calls 
him], is not distant from this spot; and in the old church 
may be seen a beautiful window, a triple lancet, in the 
south aisle, placed there to commemorate that illustrious 
author. 

Hugh Miller and Dr. Chalmers w^ere laid in the 
Grange cemetery, which is in the southern part of the 
city, near Morningside. Adam Smith is commemorated 
by a heavy piece of masonry, over his dust, at the south 
end of the Canongate churchyard, and Dugald Stewart 
by a ponderous tomb at the north end of it, where he 
was buried, as also by the monument on the Calton 
Hill. It is to see Ferguson's gravestone, however, that 
the pilgrim explores the Canongate churchyard, — and 
a dreary place it is for the last rest of a poet. Robert 
Burns placed the stone, and on the back of it is in- 
scribed : " By special grant of the managers to Robert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is to 
remain for ever sacred to Robert Ferguson," That 
poet was born September 5, 175 i, and died October 16, 



XXI ELEGIAC MEMORIALS IN EDINBURGH 295 

1774. These lines, written by Burns, with an inten- 
tional reminiscence of Gray, whose Elegy he fervently 
admired, are his epitaph : 

" No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
No storied urn nor animated bust — 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust." 

One of the greatest minds of Scotland, and indeed 
of the world, was David Hume, who could think more 
clearly and express his thoughts more precisely and 
cogently upon great subjects than almost any meta- 
physician of our English-speaking race. His tomb is 
in the old Calton cemetery, close by the prison, a grim 
Roman tower, predominant over the Waverley Vale and 
visible from every part of it. This structure is open to 
the sky, and within it and close around its interior edge, 
nine melancholy bushes are making a forlorn effort to 
grow, in the stony soil that covers the great historian's 
dust. There is an urn above the door of this mauso- 
leum and surmounting the urn is this inscription : 
''David Hume. Born April 26th, 1711. Died August 
25th, 1776. Erected in memory of him in 1778." In 
another part of this ground you may find the sepulchre 
of Sir Walter Scott's friend and publisher, Archibald 
Constable, "born 24th February 1774, died 21st July 
1827." Several priests were roaming over the ceme- 
tery when I saw it, making its dismal aspect still more 
dismal by that rook-like, unctuous, furtive aspect which 
oftens marks the ecclesiastic of the Roman Catholic 
church. 

Another great writer, Thomas de Quincey, is buried 
in the old churchyard of the West church, that lies in 



296 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xxi 

the valley just beneath the west front of the crag of 
Edinburgh Castle. I went to that spot on a bright and 
lovely autumn evening. The place was deserted, except 
for the presence of a gardener, to whom I made my 
request that he would guide me to the grave of De 
Ouincey. It is an inconspicuous place, marked by a 
simple slab of dark stone, set against the wall, in an 
angle of the enclosure, on a slight acclivity. As you 
look upward from this spot you see the grim, magnifi- 
cent castle, frowning on its precipitous height. The 
grave was covered thick with grass, and in a narrow 
trench of earth, cut in the sod around it, many pansies 
and marigolds were in bloom. Upon the gravestone 
is written : '' Sacred to the memory of Thomas de 
Quincey, who was born at Greenhay, near Manchester, 
August 15th, 1785, and died in Edinburgh, December 
8th, 1859. ^^^ ^^ Margaret, his wife, who died August 
7, 1837." Just over the honoured head of the illustri- 
ous sleeper were two white daisies peeping through the 
green ; one of which I thought it not a sin to take away, 
for it is the symbol at once of peace and hope, and 
therefore a sufficient embodiment of the best that 
death can teach. 




CHAPTER XXII 



SCOTTISH PICTURES 




masterpiece. 



TRONACHLACHER, Loch Katrine, 
September i, 1890. — No one needs to be 
told that the Forth bridge is a wonder. 
All the world knows it, and knows that the 
art of the engineer has here achieved a 
The bridge is not beautiful, whether 
viewed from afar or close at hand. The gazer can see 
it, or some part of it, from every height in Edinburgh. 
It is visible from the Calton Hill, from the Nelson col- 
umn, from the Scott monument, from the ramparts 
of the Castle, from Salisbury Crags, from the Braid 
Hills, and of course from the eminence of Arthur's 
Seat. Other objects of interest there are which seek 
the blissful shade, but the Forth bridge is an object of 
interest that insists upon being seen. The visitor to 
the shores of the Forth need not mount any height in 
order to perceive it, for all along those shores, from 
Dirleton to Leith and from Elie to Burntisland, it fre- 
quently comes into the picture. While, however, it is 
not beautiful, it impresses the observer with a sense of 
colossal magnificence. It is a more triumphant struct- 

297 



CHAP. XXII SCOTTISH PICTURES 299 

ure even than the Eiffel tower, and it predominates over 
the vision and the imagination by the same audacity of 
purpose and the same consummate fulfilment which 
mark that other marvel and establish it in universal ad- 
miration. Crossing the bridge early this morning, I 
deeply felt its superb potentiality, and was charmed 
likewise with its pictorial effect. That effect is no 
doubt due in part to its accessories. Both ways the 
broad expanse of the Forth was visible for many miles. 
It was a still morning, overcast and mournful. There 
was a light breeze from the southeast, the air at that 
elevation being as sweet as new milk. Beneath, far 
down, the surface of the steel-gray water was wrinkled 
like the scaly back of a fish. Midway a little island 
rears its spine of rock out of the stream. Westward at 
some distance rises a crag, on which is a tiny lighthouse- 
tower, painted red. The long, graceful stone piers that 
stretch into the Forth at this point, — breakwaters 
to form a harbour, — and all the little gray houses of 
Queensferry, Inverkeithing, and the adjacent villages 
looked like the toy buildings which are the playthings 
of children. A steamboat was making her way up the 
river, while near the shores were many small boats 
swinging at their moorings, for the business of the 
day was not yet begun. Over this scene the scarce 
risen sun, much obscured by dull clouds, cast a faint 
rosy light, and even while the picture was at its best we 
glided away from it into the pleasant land of Fife. 

In former days the traveller to Stirling commonly 
went by the way of Linlithgow, which is the place 
where Mary Stuart was born, and he was all the more 
prompted to think of that enchanting woman because 



300 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



he usually caught a glimpse of the ruins of Niddry 
Castle, one of the houses of her faithful Lord Seton, 
at which she rested, on the romantic and memorable 
occasion of her flight from Loch Leven. Now, since 
the Forth bridge has been opened, the most direct 




Dunfermline Abbey. 

route to Stirling is by Dunfermline. And this is a 
gain, for Dunfermline is one of the most interesting 
places in Scotland. That Malcolm of whom we catch 
a glimpse when we see a representation of Shakespeare's 



XXII SCOTTISH PICTURES 3OI 

tragedy of MacbetJi had a royal castle there nine hun- 
dred years ago, of which a fragment still remains ; and 
on a slope of the coast, a few miles west from Dunferm- 
line, the vigilant antiquarian has fixed the sight of Mac- 
duff's castle, where Lady Macduff and her children were 
slaughtered by the tyrant. Behind the ancient church at 
Dunfermline, the church of the Holy Trinity, — devas- 
tated at the Reformation, but since restored, — you may 
see the tomb of Malcolm and of Margaret, his queen, — 
an angel among women when she lived, and worthy to be 
remembered now as the saint that her church has made 
her. The body of Margaret, who died at Edinburgh 
Castle, November 16, 1093, was secretly and hastily con- 
veyed to Dunfermline, and there buried, — Edinburgh 
Castle, The Maiden Castle it was then called, being as- 
sailed by her husband's brother, Donald Bane. The 
remains of that noble and devoted woman, however, do 
not rest in that tomb, for long afterward, at the Reforma- 
tion, they were taken away, and after various wander- 
ings were enshrined at the church of St. Lawrence in 
the Escurial. I had often stood in the little chapel that 
this good queen founded in Edinburgh Castle, — a place 
which they desecrate now, by using it as a shop for the 
sale of pictures and memorial trinkets, — and I was 
soon to stand in the ruins of St. Oran's chapel, in far 
lona, which also was built by her ; and so it was with 
many reverent thoughts of an exalted soul and a benefi- 
cent Hfe that I saw the great dark tower of Dunferm- 
line church vanish in the distance. At Stirling, the 
rain, which had long been lowering, came down in 
floods, and after that for many hours there was genuine 
Scotch weather and a copious abundance of it. This 



302 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap, xxii 



also is an experience, and, although that superb drive 
over the mountain from Aberfoyle to Loch Katrine 
was marred by the wet, I was well pleased to see the 
Trosach country in storm, which I had before seen in 
sunshine. It is a land of infinite variety, and lovely 
even in tempest. The majesty of the rocky heights; 
the bleak and barren loneliness of the treeless hills ; 
the many thread-like waterfalls which, seen afar off, 
are like rivulets of silver frozen into stillness on the 
mountain-sides; the occasional apparition of precipi- 
tous peaks, over which presently are driven the white 
streamers of the mist, — all these are striking elements 
of a scene which blends into the perfection of grace 
the qualities of gentle beauty and wild romance. Ben 
Lomond in the west and Ben Venue and Ben Ledi in 
the north were indistinct, and so was Ben A'an in its 
nearer cloud ; but a brisk wind had swept the mists 
from Loch Drunkie, and under a bleak sky the smooth 
surface of " lovely Loch Achray " shone like a liquid 
diamond. An occasional grouse rose from the ferns 
and swiftly winged its way to cover. A few cows, wet 
but indifferent, composed and contented, were now and 
then visible, grazing in that desert ; while high upon 
the crags appeared many sure-footed sheep, the inevi- 
table inhabitants of those solitudes. So onward, breath- 
ing the sweet air that here was perfumed by miles and 
miles of purple heather, I descended through the dense 
coppice of birch and pine that fringes Loch Katrine, 
and all in a moment came out upon the levels of the 
lake. It was a long sail down Loch Katrine, for a pil- 
grim drenched and chilled by the steady fall of a pene- 
trating rain ; but Ellen's isle and Fitz-James's silver 







kL:. 



N0tt/'n<.t . ' Of-Ncr UJ J_M(njt 



Abbey. 



304 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. XXII 



Strand brought pleasant memories of one of the sweet- 
est of stories, and all the lonesome waters seemed 
haunted with a ghostly pageant of the radiant standards 
of Roderick Dhu. To-night the mists are on the moun- 
tains, and upon this little pine-clad promontory of 
Stronachlacher the darkness comes down early and 
seems to close it in from all the world. The waters of 
Loch Katrine are black and gloomy, and no sound is 
heard but the rush of the rain and the sigh of the pines. 
It is a night for memory and for thought, and to them 
let it be devoted. 

The night-wind that sobs in the trees — 
Ah, would that my spirit could tell 
What an infinite meaning it breathes, 
What a sorrow and longing it wakes ! 




Ihe have — Lookuig West- 
Dunfermline Abbey. 



^MM& ^m:^ mMM^s.'^<SiM^M:s'€^, 




CHAPTER XXIII 



IMPERIAL RUINS 




BAN, September 4, 1890. — Going west- 
ward from Stronachlacher, a drive of sev- 
eral delicious miles, through the country 
of Rob Roy, ends at Inversnaid and the 
shore of Loch Lomond. The rain had 
passed, but under a dusky, lowering sky 
the dense white mists, driven by a fresh morning wind, 
were drifting along the heath-clad hills, like a pageant 
of angels trailing robes of light. Loch Arklet and the 
little shieling where was born Helen, the wife of the 
Macgregor, were soon passed, — a peaceful region smil- 
ing in the vale ; and presently, along the northern bank 
of the Arklet, whose copious, dark, and rapid waters, 
broken into foam upon their rocky bed, make music 
all the way, I descended that precipitous road to Loch 
Lomond which, through many a devious turning and 
sudden peril in the fragrant coppice, reaches safety at 
last, in one of the wildest of Highland glens. This 
drive is a chief delight of Highland travel, and it ap- 
pears to be one that "the march of improvement," — 
meaning the extension of railways, — can never abolish; 

305 



XXIII IMPERIAL RUINS 307 

for, besides being solitary and beautiful, the way is diffi- 
cult. You easily divine what a sanctuary that region 
must have been to the bandit chieftain, when no road 
traversed it save perhaps a sheep-track or a path for 
horses, and when it was darkly covered with the thick 
pmes of the Caledonian forest. Scarce a living creature 
was anywhere visible. A few hardy sheep, indeed, were 
grazing on the mountain slopes ; a few cattle were here 
and there couched among the tall ferns ; and sometimes 
a sable company of rooks flitted by, cawing drearily 
overhead. Once I saw the slow-stepping, black-faced, 
puissant Highland bull, with his menacing head and his 
dark air of suspended hostility and inevitable predomi- 
nance. All the cataracts in those mountain glens were 
at the flood, because of the continuous heavy rains of 
an uncommonly wet season, and at Inversnaid the mag- 
nificent waterfall, — sister to Lodore and Aira Force, — 
came down in great floods of black and silver, and with 
a long resounding roar that seemed to shake the for- 
est. Soon the welcome sun began to pierce the mists ; 
patches of soft blue sky became visible through rifts in 
the gray ; and a glorious rainbow, suddenly cast upon a 
mountain-side of opposite Inveruglas, spanned the whole 
glittering fairy realm with its great arch of incommuni- 
cable splendour. The place of Rob Roy's cavern was 
seen, as the boat glided down Loch Lomond, — a snug 
nest in the wooded crag, — and, after all too brief a sail 
upon those placid ebon waters, I mounted the coach 
that plies between Ardlui and Crianlarich. Not much 
time will now elapse before this coach is displaced, — 
for they are building a railroad through Glen Falloch, 
which, running southerly from Crianlarich, will skirt 



3o8 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAr. 



the western shore of Loch Lomond and reach to Bal- 
loch and Helensburgh, and thus will make the railway 
communication complete, continuous, and direct be- 
tween Glasgow and Oban. At intervals all along the 
glen were visible the railway embankments, the piles 
of "sleepers," the heaps of steel rails, the sheds of the 












Loch LoiHond. 

builders, and the red flag of the dynamite blast. The 
new road will be a popular line of travel. No land 
** that the eye of heaven visits" is lovelier than this 
one. But it may perhaps be questioned whether the 
exquisite loveliness of the Scottish Highlands will not 
become vulgarised by over-easiness of accessibility. Se- 
questration is one of the elements of the beautiful, and 
numbers of people invariably make common everything 



XXIII IMPERIAL RUINS 309 

upon which they swarm. But nothing can debase the 
unconquerable majesty of those encircling mountains. 
I saw "the skyish head" of Ben More, at one angle, 
and of Ben Lui at another, and the lonely slopes of the 
Grampian hills ; and over the surrounding pasture-land, 
for miles and miles of solitary waste, the thick, ripe 
heather burnished the earth with brown and purple 
bloom and filled the air with dewy fragrance. 

This day proved capricious, and by the time the rail- 
way train from Crianlarich had sped a little way into 
Glen Lochy the landscape was once more drenched with 
wild blasts of rain. Loch-an-Beach, always gloomy, 
seemed black with desolation. Vast mists hung over 
the mountain-tops and partly hid them ; yet down their 
fern-clad and heather-mantled sides the many snowy 
rivulets, seeming motionless in the impetuosity of their 
motion, streamed in countless ribands of silver lace. 
The mountain ash, which is in perfect bloom in Septem- 
ber, bearing great pendent clusters of scarlet berries, 
gave a frequent touch of brilliant colour to this wild 
scenery. A numerous herd of little Highland steers, 
mostly brown and black, swept suddenly into the pict- 
ure, as the express flashed along Glen Lochy, and at 
beautiful Dalmally the sun again came out, with sudden 
transient gleams of intermittent splendour ; so that gray 
Kilchurn and the jewelled waters of sweet Loch Awe, 
and even the cold and grim grandeur of the rugged Pass 
of Brander, were momentarily clothed with tender, 
golden haze. It was afternoon when I alighted in the 
seaside haven of Oban ; yet soon, beneath the solemn 
light of the waning day, I once more stood amid the 
ruins of Dunstaffnage Castle and looked upon one of 



3IO GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

the most representative, even as it is one of the most 
picturesque, relics of the feudal times of Scottish his- 
tory. You have to journey about three miles out of the 
town in order to reach that place, which is upon a 
promontory where Loch Etive joins Loch Linnhe. The 
carriage was driven to it through a shallow water and 
across some sands which soon a returning tide would 
deeply submerge. The castle is so placed that, when it 
was fortified, it must have been well-nigh impregnable. 
It stands upon a broad, high, massive, precipitous rock, 
looking seaward toward Lismore island. Nothing of 
that old fortress now remains except the battlemented 
walls, upon the top of which there is a walk, and por- 
tions of its towers, of which originally there were but 
three. The roof and the floors are gone. The court- 
yard is turfed, and over the surface within its enclosure 
the grass grows thick and green, while weeds and wild- 
flowers fringe its slowly mouldering walls, upon which 
indeed several small trees have rooted themselves, in 
crevices stuffed with earth. One superb ivy-tree, of 
great age and size, covers much of the venerable ruin, 
upon its inner surface, with a wild luxuriance of brilliant 
foliage. There are the usual indications in the masonry, 
showing: how the area of this castle was once subdivided 
into rooms of various shapes and sizes, some of them 
large, in which were ample fireplaces and deeply re- 
cessed embrasures, and no doubt arched casements 
opening on the inner court. Here dwelt the early kings 
of Scotland. Here the national story of Scotland be- 
gan. Here for a long time was treasured the Stone of 
Destiny, Lia Fail, before it was taken to Scone Abbey, 
thence to be borne to London by Edward the First, in 



XXIII IMPERIAL RUINS 3 II 

1296, and placed, where it has ever since remained, and 
is visible now, in the old coronation chair in the chapel 
of Edward the Confessor, at Westminster. Here 
through the slow-moving centuries many a story of love, 
ambition, sorrow, and death has had its course and left 
its record. Here, in the stormy, romantic period that 
followed 1745, was imprisoned for a while the beautiful, 
intrepid, constant, and noble Flora Macdonald, who had 
saved the person and the life of the fugitive Pretender, 
after the fatal defeat and hideous carnage of Culloden. 
What pageants, what festivals, what glories, and what 
horrors have those old walls beheld ! Their stones seem 
agonised with ghastly memories and weary with the 
intolerable burden of hopeless age ; and as I stood and 
pondered amid their gray decrepitude and arid desola- 
tion, — while the light grew dim and the evening wind 
sighed in the ivy and shook the tremulous wall-flowers 
and the rustling grass, — the ancient, worn-out pile 
seemed to have a voice, and to plead for the merciful 
death that should put an end to its long, consuming 
misery and dumb decay. Often before, when standing 
along among ruins, have I felt this spirit of supplication, 
and seen this strange, beseechful look, in the silent, 
patient stones : never before had it appealed to my heart 
with such eloquence and such pathos. Truly nature 
passes through all the experience and all the moods of 
man, even as man passes through all the experience and 
all the moods of nature. 

On the western side of the courtyard of Dunstaffnage 
stands a small stone building, accessible by a low flight 
of steps, which bears upon its front the sculptured date 
1725, intertwined with the letters AE. C. and LC, and 




W4 , . ■.■-mv>^§^i*:^^ 



CHAP. XXIII IMPERIAL RUINS 313 

the words Laiis Deo. This was the residence of the 
ancient family of Dunstaffnage, prior to 18 10. From 
the battlements I had a wonderful view of adjacent 
lakes and engirdling mountains, — the jewels and their 
giant guardians of the lonely land of Lorn, — and saw 
the red sun go down over a great inland sea of purple 
heather and upon the wide waste of the desolate ocean. 
These and such as these are the scenes that make this 
country distinctive, and that have stamped their im- 
press of stately thought and romantic sentiment upon 
its people. Amid such scenes the Scottish national 
character has been developed, and under their influence 
have naturally been created the exquisite poetry, the 
enchanting music, the noble art and architecture, and 
the austere civilisation of imperial Scotland. 

After dark the rain again came on, and all night long, 
through light and troubled slumber, I heard it beating 
on the window-panes. The morning dawned in gloom 
and drizzle, and there was no prophetic voice to speak 
a word of cheer. One of the expeditions that may be 
made from Oban comprises a visit to Fingal's Cave, 
on the island of Staffa, and to the ruined cathedral 
on Saint Columba's island of lona, and, incidentally, 
a voyage around the great island of Mull. It is the 
most beautiful, romantic, diversified, and impressive sail 
that can be made in these waters. The expeditious itin- 
erant in Scotland waits not upon the weather, and at an 
early hour this day I was speeding out of Oban, with the 
course set for Lismore Light and the Sound of Mull.^ 

1 Chapters on lona, Staffa, Glencoe, and other beauties of Scotland 
may be found in my books, which are companions to this one, called Old 
Shrines and Ivy and Brozvn Heath and Blue Bells. 




CHAPTER XXIV 



THE LAND OF M ARM ION 




ERWICK-UPON-TVVEED, September 
8, 1890. — It had long been my wish to 
see something of royal Berwick, and our 
acquaintance has at length begun. This 
is a town of sombre gray houses capped 
with red roofs ; of elaborate, old-fashioned, disused for- 
tifications ; of dismantled military walls ; of noble stone 
bridges and stalwart piers ; of breezy battlement walks, 
fine sea-views, spacious beaches, castellated remains, 
steep streets, broad squares, narrow, winding ways, 
many churches, quaint customs, and ancient memories. 
The present, indeed, has marred the past in this old 
town, dissipating the element of romance and putting 
no adequate substitute in its place. Yet the element of 
romance is here, for such observers as can look on Ber- 
wick through the eyes of the imagination ; and even 
those who can imagine nothing must at least perceive 
that its aspect is regal. Viewed, as I had often viewed 
it, from the great Border bridge between England and 

314 



CHAP. XXIV THE LAND OF MARMION 315 

Scotland, it rises on its graceful promontory, — bathed 
in sunshine and darkly bright amid the sparkling silver 
of the sea, — a veritable ocean queen. To-day I have 
walked upon its walls, threaded its principal streets, 
crossed its ancient bridge, explored its suburbs, entered 
its municipal hall, visited its parish church, and taken 
long drives through the country that encircles it ; and 
now at midnight, sitting in a lonely chamber of the 
King's Arms and musing upon the past, I hear not 
simply the roll of a carriage wheel or the footfall of a 
late traveller dying away in the distance, but the music 
with which warriors proclaimed their victories and kings 
and queens kept festival and state. This has been a pen- 
sive day, for in its course I have said farewell to many 
lovely and beloved scenes. Edinburgh was never more 
beautiful than when she faded in the yellow mist of this 
autumnal morning. On Preston battlefield the golden 
harvest stood in sheaves, and the meadows glimmered 
green in the soft sunshine, while over them the white 
clouds drifted and the peaceful rooks made wing in 
happy indolence and peace. Soon the ruined church of 
Seton came into view, with its singular stunted tower 
and its venerable gray walls couched deep in trees, and 
around it the cultivated, many-coloured fields and the 
breezy, emerald pastures stretching away to the verge 
of the sea. A glimpse, and it is gone. But one sweet 
picture no sooner vanishes than its place is filled with 
another. Yonder, on the hillside, is the manor-house, 
with stately battlement and tower, its antique aspect 
softened by great masses of clinging ivy. Here, nes- 
tled in the sunny valley, are the little stone cottages, 



3^6 



GRAY DAYS AND GOLD 



CHAP. 



roofed with red tiles and bright with the adornment of 
arbutus and hollyhock. All around are harvest-fields 
and market-gardens, — the abundant dark green of 
potato-patches being gorgeously lit with the inter- 
minoled lustre of millions of wild-flowers, white and 




Tantallon Castle. 



gold, over which drift many flights of doves. Some- 
times upon the yellow level of the hayfields a sudden 
wave of brilliant poppies seems to break, — dashing 
itself into scarlet foam. Timid, startled sheep scurry 



XXIV THE LAND OF MARMION 317 

away into their pastures, as the swift train flashes by 
them. A woman standing at her cottage door looks 
at it with curious yet regardless gaze. Farms teeming 
with plenty are swiftly traversed, their many circular, 
cone-topped hayricks standing like towers of amber. 
Tall, smoking chimneys in the factory villages flit by 
and disappear. Everywhere are signs of industry and 
thrift, and everywhere also are denotements of the senti- 
ment and taste that are spontaneous in the nature of 
this people. Tantallon lies in the near distance, and 
speeding toward ancient Dunbar I dream once more the 
dreams of boyhood, and can hear the trumpets, and see 
the pennons, and catch again the silver gleam of the 
spears of Marmion. Dunbar is left behind, and with it 
the sad memory of Mary Stuart, infatuated with bar- 
baric Bothwell, and whirled away to shipwreck and 
ruin, — as so many great natures have been before 
and will be again, — upon the black reefs of human 
passion. The heedless train is skirting the hills of 
Lamrnermoor now, and speeding through plains of a 
fertile verdure that is brilliant and beautiful down to the 
margin of the ocean. Close by Cockburnspath is the 
long, lonely, melancholy beach that well may have been 
in vScott's remembrance when he fashioned that weird 
and tragic close of the most poetical and pathetic of his 
novels, while, near at hand, on its desolate headland, 
the grim ruin of Fast Castle, — which is deemed the 
original of his Wolf's Crag, — frowns darkly on the 
white breakers at its surge-beaten base. Edgar of 
Ravenswood is no longer an image of fiction, when you 
look upon that scene of gloomy grandeur and mystery. 
But do not look upon it too closely nor too long, — for 



3l8 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

of all scenes that are conceived as distinctly weird it 
may truly be said that they are more impressive in the 
imagination than in the actual prospect. This coast is 
full of dark ravines, stretching seaward and thickly 
shrouded with trees, but in them now and then a 
glimpse is caught of a snugly sheltered house, over- 
grown with flowers, securely protected from every 
blast of storm. The rest is open land, which many 
dark stone walls partition, and many hawthorn hedges, 
and many little white roads, winding away toward the 
shore : for this is Scottish sea-side pageantry, and the 
sunlit ocean makes a silver setting for the jewelled 
landscape, all the way to Berwick. 

The profit of walking in the footsteps of the past 
is that you learn the value of the privilege of life 
in the present. The men and women of the past 
had their opportunity and each improved it after his 
kind. These are the same plains in which Wallace and 
Bruce fought for the honour, and established the suprem- 
acy, of the kingdom of Scotland. The same sun gilds 
these plains to-day, the same sweet wind blows over 
them, and the same sombre, majestic ocean breaks in 
solemn murmurs on their shore. ''Hodie mihi, eras 
tibi," — as it was written on the altar skulls in the 
ancient churches. Yesterday belonged to them ; to-day 
belongs to us ; and well will it be for us if we improve 
it. In such an historic town as Berwick the lesson is 
brought home to a thoughtful mind with convincing 
force and significance. So much has happened here, — 
and every actor in the great drama is long since dead 
and gone ! Hither came King John, and slaughtered 
the people as if they were sheep, and burnt the city, — • 



XXIV THE LAND OF MARMION 319 

himself applying the torch to the house in which he had 
slept. Hither came Edward the First, and mercilessly 
butchered the inhabitants, men, women, and children, 
violating even the sanctuary of the churches. Here, in 
his victorious days, Sir William Wallace reigned and 
prospered ; and here, when Menteith's treachery had 
wrought his ruin, a fragment of his mutilated body was 
long displayed upon the bridge. Here, in the castle, of 
which only a few fragments now remain (these being 
adjacent to the North British railway station), Edward 
the First caused to be confined in a wooden cage that 
intrepid Countess of Buchan who had crowned Robert 
Bruce, at Scone. Hither came Edward the Third, after 
the battle of Halidon Hill, which lies close by this place, 
had finally established the English power in Scotland. 
All the princes that fought in the wars of the Roses 
have been in Berwick and have wrangled over the pos- 
session of it. Richard the Third doomed it to isolation. 
Henry the Seventh declared it a neutral state. By 
Elizabeth it was fortified, — in that wise sovereign's 
resolute and vigorous resistance to the schemes of the 
Roman Catholic church for the dominance of her king- 
dom. John Knox preached here, in a church on Hide 
Hill, before he went to Edinburgh to shake the throne 
with his tremendous eloquence. The picturesque, un- 
happy James the Fourth went from this place to Ford 
Castle and Lady Heron, and thence to his death, at 
Flodden Field. Here it was that Sir John Cope first 
paused in his fugitive ride from the fatal field of Pres- 
ton, and here he was greeted as affording the only 
instance in which the first news of a defeat had been 
brought by the vanquished General himself. And within 



320 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

sight of Berwick ramparts are those perilous Fame 
islands, where, at the wreck of the steamer Forfarshire, 
in 1838, the heroism of a woman wrote upon the historic 
page of her country, in letters of imperishable glory, the 
name of Grace Darling. (There is a monument to 
her memory, in Bamborough churchyard.) Imagination, 
however, has done for this region what history could 
never do. Each foot of this ground was known to Sir 
Walter Scott, and for every lover of that great author 
each foot of it is hallowed. It is the Border Land, — 
the land of chivalry and song, the land that he has en- 
deared to all the world, — and you come to it mainly for 

his sake. 

'' Day set on Norham's castled steep, 
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, 
And Cheviot's mountains lone.'' 

The village of Norham lies a few miles west of Ber- 
wick, upon the south bank of the Tw^eed, — a group of 
cottages clustered around a single long street. The 
buildings are low and are mostly roofed with dark slate 
or red tiles. Some of them are thatched, and grass 
and flowers grow wild upon the thatch. At one end 
of the main highway is a market-cross, near to which 
is a little inn. Beyond that and nearer to the Tweed, 
w^hich flows close beside the place, is a church of great 
antiquity, set toward the western end of a long and 
ample churchyard, in which many graves are marked 
with tall, thick, perpendicular slabs, many with dark, 
oblong tombs, tumbling to ruin, and many with short, 
stunted monuments. The church tower is low, square, 
and of enormous strength. Upon the south side of the 
chancel are five windows, beautifully arched, — the dog- 



THE LAND OF MARMION 



321 



toothed casements being uncommonly complete speci- 
mens of that ancient architectural device. This church 
has been restored; the south aisle in 1846, by I. 
Bononi ; the north aisle in 1852, by E. Gray. The 
western end of the churchyard is thickly masked in 




Norham Castle — in the time of Mar7nion. 



great trees, and looking directly east from this point 
your gaze falls upon all that is left of the stately Castle 
of Norham, formerly called Ublanf ord, — built by Flam- 
berg, Bishop of Durham, in 1 121, and restored by Hugh 
Pudsey, another Prince of that See, in 1164. It must 
once have been a place of tremendous fortitude and of 
great extent. Now it is wide open to the sky, and noth- 



322 GRAY DAYS AND GOLD chap. 

ing of it remains but roofless walls and crumbling arches, 
on which the grass is growing and the pendent bluebells 
tremble in the breeze. Looking through the embrasures 
of the east wall you see the tops of large trees that are 
rooted in the vast trench below, where once were the 
dark waters of the moat. All the courtyards are cov- 
ered now with sod, and quiet sheep nibble and lazy 
cattle couch where once the royal banners floated and 
plumed and belted knights stood round their king. It 
was a day of uncommon beauty, — golden with sunshine 
and fresh with a perfumed air ; and nothing was want- 
ing to the perfection of solitude. Near at hand a thin 
stream of pale blue smoke curled upward from a cottage 
chimney. At some distance the sweet voices of playing 
children mingled with the chirp of small birds and the 
occasional cawing of the rook. The long grasses that 
grow upon the ruin moved faintly, but made no sound. 
A few doves were seen, gliding in and out of crevices 
in the mouldering turret. And over all, and calmly and 
coldly speaking the survival of nature when the grandest 
works of man are dust, sounded the rustle of many 
branches in the heedless wind. 

The day was setting over Norham as I drove away, 
— the red sun slowly obscured in a great bank of slate- 
coloured cloud, — but to the last I bent my gaze upon 
it, and that picture of ruined magnificence can never 
fade out of my mind. The road eastward toward Ber- 
wick is a green lane, running between harvest-fields, 
which now were thickly piled with golden sheaves, while 
over them swept great flocks of sable rooks. There are 
but few trees in that landscape, — scattered groups of 
the ash and the plane, — to break the prospect. For 



XXIV THE LAND OF MARMION 323 

a long time the stately ruin remained in view, — its 
huge bulk and serrated outline, relieved against the red 
and gold of sunset, taking on the perfect semblance of 
a colossal cathedral, like that of lona, with vast square 
tower, and chancel, and nave : only, because of its jag- 
ged lines, it seems in this prospect as if shaken by a 
convulsion of nature and tottering to its momentary fall. 
Never was illusion more perfect. Yet as the vision 
faded I could remember only the illusion that will never 
fade, — the illusion that a magical poetic genius has 
cast over those crumbling battlements, rebuilding the 
shattered towers, and pouring through their ancient 
halls the glowing tide of life and love, of power and 
pageant, of beauty, light, and song. 



THE END 



THE WORKS OF WILLIAM WINTER. 



SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND. Library Edition. Illustrated. i2mo. 
Cloth. ^2.00. Pocket Edition. i8nio. Cloth. 75 cents. 

GRAY DAYS AND GOLD : In England and Scotland. Library Edi- 
tion. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth. ^2.50. Pocket Edition. i8mo. 
Cloth. 75 cents. 

OLD SHRINES AND IVY: Containing Shrines of History and 

Shrines of Literature. Pocket Edition. i8mo. Cloth. 75 cents. 

BROWN HEATH AND BLUE BELLS : Being Sketches of Scot- 
land. With Other Papers. iSmo. Cloth. 75 cents. 

WANDERERS : Being The Poems of William Winter. Pocket Edi- 
tion. With a Portrait of the Author. iSmo. Cloth. 75 cents. 

SHADOWS OF THE STAGE. Three Volumes. 
First Series. 1893. i8mo. Cloth. 75 cents. 
Second Series. 1893. i8mo. Cloth. 75 cents. 
Third Series. 1895. i8mo. Cloth. 75 cents. 

LIFE AND ART OF EDWIN BOOTH. Pocket Edition. With 
Lay's Portrait of Booth as Hamlet. i8mo. Cloth. 75 cents. This 
book contains an ample and particular account of the life of Edwin 
Booth, together with extracts from his letters, comments from his 
manuscripts, and essays upon his acting in all the parts that he 
played. The Library edition is embellished with Sixteen Full-page 
Illustrations, Character Portraits, etc. 

LIFE AND ART OF JOSEPH JEFFERSON. Library Edition. 
i2mo. With Sixteen Full-Page Illustrations, Portraits of Jef- 
ferson in Character, etc. Cloth. ^2.25. This volume contains a full 
account of Jefferson's ancestors upon the stage, and covers a period 
of more than 160 years in Dramatic History — from 1728 to 1894. 

ORATIONS BY WILLIAM WINTER. Two Volumes. 

George William Curtis. A Commemorative Oration, Delivered before 
the People of Staten Island, at the Castleton, St. George, February 
24, 1893. l8mo. Cloth. 50 cents. 

The Press and the Stage. An Oration in Reply to Dion Boucicault. 
Delivered at the Brunswick, N.Y., before the Goethe Society, January 
28, 1889. Limited Edition, on Hand-made Paper. i2mo. Cloth. 

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WANDERERS. 

Being a Collection of the Poems of William Winter. 

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i8mo. Cloth. Gilt top. 75 cents. 

Also a limited large-paper edition, printed on English hand-made paper. 
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"Free from cant and rant — clear-cut as a cameo, pellucid as a mountain 
brook. In its own modest sphere it is, to our thinking, extraordinarily success- 
ful, and satisfies us far more than the pretentious mouthing which receives the 
seal of over-hasty approbation." — At/iencEum. 

" They evince the true poetic spirit, and for daintiness, combined with ele- 
gance, depth, and power, rank with many of the best poems of the century. To 
anyone unfamiliar with Mr. Winter's peculiar gift this appears to be strong 
praise, but in his little volume will be found many gems of rare purity and 
sentiment." — Minneapolis Tribune. 

"A most graceful and felicitous poet of occasions, Mr. Winter is yet more. 
He has the poet's temperament, with all its delicacy of intuitive insight, its sus- 
ceptibility to beauty, and its ardent emotion. His music is all in minor chords, 
and if it is not the heroic call to life, the triumphant faith in the life to come, it 
is so sympathetic and so sweet in its sadness that it charms the imagination like 
a plaintive melody heard in the shadowy twilight." — Boston Budget. 

" Mr. Winter has gone back for his inspiration to the English lyrical poets 
of the Elizabethan period and their successors, who, in spite of many changes 
in taste, still retain a secure place in our affections ; and their sweetness, sim- 
plicity, and spontaneity are easily traceable in his limpid verse." — Borne 
Journal (New York). 

" Whatever the theme of his song, he gives it that exquisite finish and im- 
parts to it that true poetic touch that cannot fail to charm the reader who is 
blessed with a keen appreciation of the high, beautiful, and true elements of 
poetry. He is graceful, harmonious, spontaneous, appreciative, and strong." 
— Boston Home Jourtial. 

"... A collection of some poems as true as any that have been penned 
in the language for a century. The commendation is a strong one, but it is 
only just. Mr. Winter in every verse gives full testimony of the possession 
of the real poetic spirit." — Chicago Times. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

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SHADOWS OF THE STAGE. 

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" There is in these writings the same charm of style, poetic glamour, and 
flavour of personality which distinguishes whatever comes to us from Mr. 
Winter's pen, and which make them unique in our literature." — Home Jour- 
nal (New York). 

" Mr. Winter has long been known as the foremost of American dramatic 
critics, as a writer of very charming verse, and as a master in the lighter veins 
of English prose." — Chicago Herald. 

" He has the poise and sure judgment of long experience, the fine percep- 
tion and cultured mind of a litterateur and man of the world, and a command 
of vivid and flexible language quite his own. One must look far for anything 
approaching it in the way of dramatic criticism ; only Lamb could write more 
delightfully of actors and acting. . . . Mr. Winter is possessed of that quality 
invaluable to a playgoer, a temperament finely receptive, sensitive to excel- 
lence ; and this it is largely which gives his dramatic writings their value. 
Criticism so luminous, kindly, genial, sympathetic, and delicately expressed 
fulfils its function to the utmost." — Milwaukee Setititzel. 

" These little books are in every way delightful. They give us charming 
glimpses of personal character, exquisite bits of criticism, and the indefinable 
charm of stage life. . . . No transcript of American life of to-day would be 
complete without these pictures, and Mr. Winter has in a sense done a service 
to history in these exquisite little books." — Appeal Avalanche. 

"The reader is thrilled almost into the belief that he himself has seen and 
heard these great ones, so illuminating is the touch of this biographer. How 
fine are his discriminations; how kindly is his severest censure! " — Philadel- 
phia Record. 

" Mr. Winter's exquisite style lends a charm to every page of the ' Shadows,' 
and there are many passages of analytical criticism that make it a valuable con- 
tribution to stage literature." — Dramatic Mirror. 

" It contains sketches of the elder Booth, who was probably the most origi- 
nal actor ever seen in America; of Forrest; of James H. Hackett, celebrated 
for bis personation of B'alstaff; of John E. Owens; of John Brougham; of 
Modjeska, and of twenty others, either in some special or general aspect. An 
appreciative chapter is on Ada Rehan's acting." — Chicago Herald. 

" The essays . . . are significant, not only as containing on the whole the 
best literary criticism of the drama in our language to-day, but as forming, with 
the first series under its title, already published, a tolerably complete history of 
the American stage." — Hotne Journal (New York). 

" Into very pretty little volumes Mr. Winter has gathered a score or more of 
his minor theatrical articles, written from day to day as occasion served, and as 
the passing show gave opportunity, and yet written always with abundant liter- 
ary art and with the constant desire to pay due meed of praise to those fea- 
tures of the contemporary stage which were best worth commemoration." — 
The Nation. 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 

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WORKS OF WILLIAM WINTER. 

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SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND. 

Also New Edition, revised, with numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 
Cloth extra, gilt edges. iS2.oo. 

" He offers something more than guidance to the American traveller. He 
is a convincing and eloquent interpreter of the august memories and venerable 
sanctities of the old country." — Saturday Review. 

" The book is delightful reading." — Scribners Monthly. 

GRAY DAYS AND GOLD. 

" Mr. Winter's graceful and meditative style in his English sketches has 
recommended his earlier volume upon (Shakespeare's) England to many 
readers, who will not need urging to make the acquaintance of this companion- 
book, in which the traveller guides us through the quiet and romantic scenery 
of the mother-country with a mingled affection and sentiment of which we 
have had no example since Irving's day." — The Nation. 

OLD SHRINES AND IVY. 

"Whatever William Winter writes is marked by felicity of diction and by 
refinement of style, as well as by the evidence of culture and wide reading. 
' Old Shrines and Ivy ' is an excellent example of the charm of his work." — 
Boston Courier. 

BROWN HEATH AND BLUE BELLS. 

" A set of ' Tributes ' to literary and artistic people. The main purpose of 
the compilation is to express the charm of Scottish scenes and to stimulate the 
desire for travel in storied regions." — Philadelphia Evening Telegraph. 

" Handled with exquisite grace, with gentlemanly reticence, with humanly 
beautiful tenderness. ... He is a sympathetic traveller. He records his im- 
pressions in delicate, fascinating, well-mannered prose, or in verse which is 
equally well bred, equally impeccable. It is a book which reflects the poetry of 
Scotland, and the humanity of an instructed man of letters." ~ Commercial 
Advertiser. 

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 

A Eulogy delivered before the People of Staten Island at the Castleton, 
St. George, Feb. 24, 1893, by William Winter. iSmo. 75 cents. 

THE LIFE AND ART OF EDWIN BOOTH. 

Pocket Edition. With Lay's portrait of Booth as Hamlet. iSmo. Cloth. 
75 cents. 

THE LIFE AND ART OF JOSEPH JEFFERSON. 

Together with some account of his Ancestry and of the Jefferson Family of 
Actors. By William Winter. With Illustrations. ^2.25. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 

^ , 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 

5o ^ 



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